


wanderer

by hvllanders



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, College Student Peter Parker, College!Peter, F/M, Fights, Getting Back Together, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Other, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Poison, Poor Peter Parker, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Reader-Insert, Rescue, Reunions, Sloppy Makeouts, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, maybe???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-06-16 15:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 73,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15440559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hvllanders/pseuds/hvllanders
Summary: It's been several years since you've seen Peter Parker. Even longer since the world tried to piece itself back together following the Infinity War. You've put your life back together too. Or so you think.But when you run into Spider-Man unexpectedly on your campus one night, things start unravelling. Secrets from your past, unresolved relationships, and the enigmatic pull of one particular arachnid boy begin to change the course of your life once again. But this time, you're not so sure everything is going to fall back into place.





	1. attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which peter parker shows up unexpectedly on your college campus and you almost pepper spray him

You nearly made it back home.

It was a cold night on campus. You were making the brief walk back from the library to your apartment, head still spinning with equations and possible lab errors as you hunched your shoulders against the biting wind. The campus, though crowded with people, felt impossibly lonely. Everyone bundled up, earphones in, quickening their pace to reach destinations as soon as possible. Get out of the cold. Inexplicably, the snow gathered on icy branches made you homesick. You didn’t long for home much, not anymore, but tonight, with the stress of exams weighing on your mind and the semester seeming simultaneously to be drawing to rapid close and dragging on forever, you felt that familiar tug. A longing.

You nearly made it back home. Nearly.

But as others around you shuffled by in a hurry, something made you pause. A strange feeling. Call it spidey-senses or nineteen years of growing up in NYC; something wasn’t right. One hand gripped the strap of your backpack and the other wrapped around the pepper spray that was never far out of reach, heart thundering double-time in your chest. But still…nothing. Just people rushing about their late-night activities. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. But then-

Motion. To your right. You squinted down an alleyway to your right, taking another step forward but. No. Nononononono. It couldn’t be.

Leaning up against a wall, you’d recognize that gangly bunch of limbs anywhere. Spider-Man. Here. At your university.

Your face flushed, fist curling harder around the can of pepper spray. You couldn’t take this. Not here, not now, when exams were the only thing taking up room in your mind, the only thing you had time to think about, not stupid Spider-Man and his stupid curly hair and…You were half a second from turning on your heel and marching away, hoping he hadn’t seen you and half-hoping he had, when you heard him speak.

“Y/N?”

You knew that voice. You knew that tone. The decision was made for you, then, because you couldn’t leave him like this. _Dammit._ You were by his side in an instant, walking faster than you intended because now that you were closer you couldn’t tell he wasn’t leaning against the wall casually, he was supporting his left ankle off the ground. And, though the light from the nearby streetlamp wasn’t nearly enough to illuminate everything around you two, you could still tell there was blood staining his suit.

“Dammit, Peter,” you told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was an automatic reaction; a gesture you had done a million times before. But seeing your hand touching him now- fingers against a crimson-stained suit- it was all surreal. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“I thought…it was you,” he said, leaning on you for balance. “I’m okay…I just…” He swayed briefly before collapsing into you.

“Peter!” You grunted under the sudden weight, supporting his upper body while gently lowering him to the ground. “Fucking hell.” You peeled off his mask carefully, making sure no one else was looking around the alleyway before doing so. You were nothing if not careful around this boy. You were good at keeping secrets. Hands found his chest, felt it rising and falling. A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped your lips, and you tried to pretend your hands weren’t shaking. He was okay. He was already stirring, brown eyes opening to look at you dazedly. Fuck him for being able to turn your life upside down in the five minutes it should have taken you to get from the library to campus.

“What the hell?” Peter groaned, a hand reaching towards the blood on his chest. A thousand thoughts raced through your head; you should get him to a doctor, or maybe not…he healed so fast you were always unsure about these things. You needed to get him somewhere though, and fast. But for the moment, all you could think about was the man down in your arms. The last time you had seen him, he had still been a boy.

“You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes,” you told him, brushing a curl off his forehead. Dammit, you hadn’t wanted to be tender. Being tender got you in trouble.

He smiled weakly. “My bad. Won’t happen again.”

You caught yourself before smiling back, taking your hand away from his forehead. But there was no changing the fact he was still down for the count on your lap. There was just no staying away from him. Build back your walls, dammit. Dammit dammit dammit.

You felt Peter shift underneath you, suddenly uncomfortable. He could always read you so well. “You know, I think I’m good, actually. Just a little scratch-”

He made like he was about to get up, but before you could push him back down he was already swooning backwards again.

“Peter, just stay still for a moment. Please.” You couldn’t even look him in the eyes while you spoke. Coward. You took a deep breath; in through your nose, out through your mouth. He shuddered beneath you, teeth chattering in pain and the cold. “We need to get you inside.”

He was shaking his head, but you silenced him with a glare. “Don’t even test me with that superfast healing bullshit, Parker. I know as well as you do that it works best when you’re comfortable and resting. And I honestly don’t think an alleyway is the best facilitator of that.” Where to go, though? There was only one place. You closed your eyes, drawing in another shaking breath. Were you really about to do this?

“Can you walk?” you asked him, looking down to assess his face. Weasel out if he was lying.

“I think so.” He sounded doubtful, which didn’t help the situation.

“Just another half-block or so,” you told him. “Not far.” You pursed your lips as you surveyed his still suit-ed body, though. “Do you happen to have a change of clothes? Anything you can slip on instead of the spidey-suit?”

He looked up at you with those puppy-dog eyes. “Maybe not?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Naturally. Okay. Okay, we’re going to make this work.” You stripped off your sweatshirt, tossing it in his direction. “Whatcha got on under the suit? Boxers, I hope?”

His cheeks colored, but he nodded.

“Alright, cool, you’re gonna rock the boxers and sweatshirt look.”

“Seriously?” He was indignant, but you could see how pale he was getting.

“Come on, we’re on a college campus, no one’s gonna look twice. Or do you have a better plan?”

He gave you a long look before pressing the emblem in the middle of his suit, causing the entire thing to loosen around his body, before beginning to strip. He struggled, wincing a few times as he eased it from off his shoulders. “Don’t look.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh my fucking god.”

“I’m trying to be modest!”

“Like I haven’t…”

“Hey. Help me up.”

You grabbed his palms, hauling him upwards and catching him as he swayed back towards you. “Steady it up, Parker,” you told him, even though you were positive you had a grip on him. “Let’s get going.”

He pinched his lips together, riding out another wave of pain. “Where are we going?”

You tried not to think about how many times you had imagined this moment; you and Peter, bodies pressed against each other, heading together into a future that was anything but certain. “My apartment.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah! this is my first multi-chap in like...years (and my first on ao3). I have lots of huge plans for this fic, and I hope you guys enjoyed! Let me know what you think in the comments below!


	2. old school

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you care for a banged-up peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely responses to the first chapter! I appreciate them a ton, and I hope you like this chapter as well :)

He felt different in your arms.

Once upon a time, he had fit there almost perfectly; you had known every inch of him. The way his neck curved to the base of his collarbone, the flexing muscles of his back, shoulder fitting into arm. Forearms. Fingers. They had been yours. He had all been yours.

Now, as you both staggered your way through the apartment door like you were in some sort of bastardized three-legged race, you felt hard muscle where baby fat used to be. Foreign flesh; years of history between you. Years of history apart.

Still, you knew him well enough to match his steps, lead him carefully down onto your couch. The walk had taken its toll on him; he was paler than before, and he collapsed back onto your pillows with a shaky sigh. His hair was longer now. He had grown it out, so it curled in an unruly mop around his head. You were caught with the urge to study every part of him that had changed in the years, make up for the lost time.

His eyes, ever vigilant, were watching you as well, tracking your movements as you set your backpack down on the counter before returning to sit beside his prone form. Was he analyzing you in the same way you were him? A shaking, trembling feeling made its way up from your gut, and you tried to pretend you didn’t feel the urge to cry. Seeing him here, like this, beat up and bloody. In your space. Your sworn-off, Peter-free space. You had never had a Peter in here before.

He shivered, and you felt your senses clear, your sense of purpose return. You knew how to run this show. “Shirt off, Parker. You know the drill.”

This time he didn’t complain, didn’t make a witty comment or try and brush the situation off. That’s how you knew he was hurting. Instead, he began pulling his arms out of the sweatshirt, and you tried to focus on the task at hand, tried to ignore that irrational swell of pride, _he’s wearing my clothes, my sweatshirt_ , tried not to wish he had kept it on, so you could admire him in it longer. He tried to pull the fabric up over his head, gasping, and your hands were there before he could ask, helping him pull his head through. Carefully. Tenderly.

You shifted so you were more comfortably beside him on the couch; him lying there, head on one of your pillows, you beside his hips. “Let’s see the carnage,” you said, turning on a lamp to survey the damage.

Dark bruising colored the top of his chest from collarbone down to rib cage. That was where the bloody abrasions started; he was ripped up from ribs to hip, bleeding and scratched. The wounds were dirty, covered in bits of gravel and rubble. You reached out with practiced hands, pressing gently on his chest.

“Careful,” he whispered, eyes closed tight.

“I’m always careful,” you told him, continuing down his side. “It’s you who-”

He hissed suddenly, reaching out blindly in pain. His hand locked onto your hip. Knuckles white. Eyes clenched tight. There was a breath. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and there was a long moment where you both sat in shocked silence.

Silence. Then, quietly, “I think you’ve broken a couple ribs.”

He swallowed audibly, nodding. His hand slid back off your hip.

“And your head.” You turned your gaze to his forehead, scraped up and bloody. You prodded gently a welt rapidly increasing in size above his right eye. “Nice goose egg. You got a concussion?”

“I don’t think so,” he whispered, wincing as you poked at a bruise.

“What did KAREN say?”

He squinted, perhaps determining how easy it would be to lie. “She didn’t know.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Sure. So how many of me are you seeing right now?”

 “One?” He frowned, forehead creased in concentration, before adding, “Most of the time?”

“Is that a question?”

A sigh, and then his eyes drifted back shut. “Look, this is nothing I haven’t handled before. S’not so bad.”

“Mmmm.” You reached down for his wrist, feeling his pulse. “You can breathe fine, though? And nothing else hurts?” Your gaze travelled along his body, searching, not trusting him to answer truthfully. “What about your ankle?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a sprain. It’ll be okay.”

It looked swollen, but otherwise not bad. He was right, it would be fine in an hour with some ice. You got up from the couch, making your way to the fridge and filling a bag up with ice for his ankle before ducking into the bathroom to grab a first aid kit. Back in the living room, Peter’s eyes were still closed, and you felt your heart beat a little faster.

“Hey! Eyes open, Parker. I don’t care if you heal from concussions freakishly fast. We don’t play with those.”

He obliged but was still silent. It was unnerving. You weren’t used to this Peter, so quiet. It reminded you of the last time you’d seen him. Silent. Guarded.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back down, hands only shaking a little. “Ice for the ankle, ice pack for the head, and disinfectant for the chest, because it looks like you’ve gotten dragged across half of Manhattan, and I’m not letting those germs get trapped inside your freakishly fast-healing body.”

He took the ice pack and pressed it against his forehead, wincing. “Disinfectant?”

“The good news is I don’t think you need stitches. So, disinfectant is like a consolation prize.”

He rolled his eyes, but a smirk returned to his face, and you felt your heart warm in response. “Consolation prize my ass.” His cheeks paled as you began cleaning his wounds with a rag and some disinfectant, but he kept talking. “Bug, you act like fucking getting sprayed up with that godforsaken stuff is the best-case scenario.”

If you stiffened at the use of your old nickname, he didn’t seem to notice. How easily you fell back into those patterns. The ruts you had run, the lines you had practiced so many times. You tried for a normal tone as you responded. “With you, Parker, it usually is.”

“Mmm.” He was quiet then, a stoically good patient as you continued to clean, ice pack dutifully applied to forehead.

You could have left it there. Settled into a comfortable silence. Let everything be as it was- a bastardized version of normal. But then, there you were, playing the same games as always, as you jokingly started, “A rogue robot. He picked you up and tossed you off the Empire State Building.”

Again, if he had any thoughts about playing your old game, a decidedly juvenile old game, he made no mention of it. Instead he just chuckled, “Ha. I wish I looked like this after being tossed off a building. Plus, who said robots have genders?”

“Vicious genetically-enhanced leopard that escaped from its facility.”

“Nope.”

“Gigantic embodiment of an amoeba hellbent on squishing half of New York.”

“Nada.”

“A dick. Someone in a literal costume of a dick with no powers other than shooting a ton of fake cum out the tip.”

He cracked a smile. The rag was bloody in your hands. “I’d like to see that.”

“Dammit, Peter, why are you here?”

He was silent, gaze finding yours. There were tears in your eyes, suddenly, unexpectedly, and you wished they were gone, you wished he was gone except dammit no you didn’t, you were living for this moment, you _had_ lived for this moment in a thousand of your fantasies, you didn’t know how much you needed to see him until you did.

He answered slowly, eyes not daring to meet yours anymore. “There was…a complication. I was, I’ve been, tracking someone for a while now, and they lead me close to here, but they threw me off their tail. I was trying to ride on top of a train, following them, but I slipped. I fell off.”

You exhaled shakily, trying to ignore the sinking pit of disappointment in your gut. What had you wanted to hear. Not this. But you didn’t know what else there was to share.

“Right. Well. I’m glad you’re okay at least.”

“I’m glad I found you.” He said what you were too scared to say. He was always braver in that way. And you were always envious of him.

“Yeah.”

He smiled at you gently, generously, before his eyes drifted back shut, exhausted. You sat by his side for longer than you should have, watching him breathe, making sure he was really alright. His forehead crinkled adorably in his sleep, and you caught yourself before smiling.

No.

You stood up abruptly, and Peter stirred, nearly waking. Despite yourself, you pulled a blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders before retiring to your room. Despite yourself, you couldn’t help waking up every few hours, wandering ghostlike into the living room, making sure he was alright. Despite yourself, planting the softest kiss on his forehead. Just so he knew he wasn’t alone.

When morning came, you woke up early, moving in parallel of the sun as you pulled covers off and tried to calm the thumping of your heart. What did you do now? With a boy on your couch whom you hadn’t seen in years. So much history between you. Where did you go from here? But you had never been one to stray away from danger, to look sideways because it might get scary. If Peter Parker sleeping in your living room was part of some greater cosmic plan, then so be it.

You tried not to savor how it had felt to hold him again, to touch him. To feel the hard slope of his shoulders down to the softness of his belly. His eyes, witty and sharp, the kind capable of discerning bullshit in an instant. They were harder now, but perhaps less guarded than your last encounter. Could you tell him what you really wanted? For him to stay? Just stay for a night where you could hash everything out and have a good, cleansing cry?

But the living room was empty.

Couch vacated. Stain remover and rag on the coffee table. There was an empty, familiar sort of feeling ringing through your stomach. On the table was a fifty-dollar bill and a note.

“Hope this covers the damage to the couch – Spider-Man.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought this was going to be fluffy??? So sorry, but any Post-Infinity War fic has to have its due amount of angst of course...Let me know what you think in the comments!


	3. cleaning supplies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you clean up peter’s mess and receive an unexpected phone call

“Oh my god. Did you murder someone in here while I was gone?”

The noise snapped you out of your thoughts, causing the rag to drop out of your hand, heart racing erratically. “Jesus, Gwen. You scared me.”

You roommate just raised an eyebrow, long blonde hair tied back and swinging, chewing on a piece of gum like mad. “I scared  _you_ , huh? You’re not the one who returns home to her roommate scrubbing blood off your couch.” She set her bags down on the kitchen counters before rifling through the fridge. “God, do we have anything to eat?”

You didn’t look up from the current stain you were scrubbing. “There’s Goldfish in one of the cabinets. I think?”

“Mmmm.” She continued rustling.

Your phone buzzed, and you looked up, half-expecting (hoping? foolishly?) to see a text from Peter. You weren’t sure what you wanted it to say (“Hey gf! Sorry for crashing at your place for the night while severly injured! xoxoxo). But it was just an email from the local pizza place reminding you to use your rewards points before they expired.

“Pizza points.”

“What?” Gwen sat carefully on the non-bloodstained part of the couch, Goldfish in hand. You extended the phone towards her, email open. “You make no sense when you’re upset,” she finished. “And we’re not using the pizza points tonight, we just got pizza.”

“That’s why we have the points,” you told her. “Because we’re frequent pizza eaters. And you have to use them within two days or they expire.”

Gwen’s lips pushed into a thin line. “Are you going to tell me what all this is?” She motioned to the scrubbing, the blood, the bleached cushions. “Or do I have to guess? Because I can guess, but I’m going to guess like mob ring or secret assassin or something.”

You sighed, putting down the anti-stain solution. It wasn’t really helping anyway. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“Well, I’ve only got three finals, a lab write-up, and a term paper to do. Hit me, baby.”

You smiled ruefully at the sentiment, wringing the rag through your fingers. “What do you remember me telling you about Peter Parker?”

Gwen’s facial expression didn’t change, but you swore there was a knowing gleam in her eyes as she said, “Only that he was your first kiss, first love, first ‘Damn, we don’t really work now that we’re all grown up.’”

If only it were that simple. “Yeah. Well. I saw him last night.”

Gwen’s eyebrows shot up as she surveyed the couch damage once again. She said nothing, chewing vigorously on a Goldfish. Waiting.

“He had…he had gotten in an accident. Fell off his motorcycle.” How had it been so long, and yet lying for him to your best friend came like second nature?

“Mmmhm.” Gwen’s face was impassive. “And you didn’t…I don’t know…bring him to the hospital? Get professional help? Put a tarp down on the goddamn couch first?”

“He doesn’t have insurance.” That could be true. Although, with Stark…well, maybe. It could be true.

“Okay.” Gwen’s eyes were still moving in-between the bloodstains and the rag in your hands. “But he’s alright?”

You scrubbed at the stain again. “I think so. I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh?”

“He was gone when I woke up.”

Gwen let out a cynical laugh. “Figures.” Her face softened, though, as she looked at you. “How are you doing about it? It’s been, what, a year since you’ve seen each other?”

“Two.”

The girl shifted so she could take the rag out of your hand, squeezing it instead. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“It’s fine.” But your voice shook when you said it.

“Listen, don’t worry about the couch, okay? I’ll get us a new one.”

You shook your head, pouring more stain remover onto the rag. “You don’t need to do that. I’ll fix it, really, I promise.”

“Y/N-”

“It’ll be good as new.” You couldn’t look at her as you said it.

“Babe, I’ll get a new couch, it’s okay.” She squeezed your hand again. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t want a couch that someone bled all over. Even if it was your extremely hot ex-boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you felt the knot in your stomach slowly unraveling. “He’s not extremely hot.”

“Well, I’ve never seen pictures of him! I wouldn’t know! Plus, you’re blushing, so I don’t believe a single word you’re saying.” She shifted backwards, grabbing her phone from the coffee table. “Let’s get that pizza after all. You choose the toppings. We can even splurge and do deep dish if you want.”

She smiled deeply at you, wiping a tear off your cheek. You hadn’t even realized you’d been crying.

***

Finals came in their usual flurry of stress and manic studying, manic non-studying. You were sitting in the living room of your apartment surrounded by papers as you “reviewed” Organic Chemistry with Gwen.

“This makes no sense,” she was saying, frowning down at her textbook. “ _Make sure you study this key point!_ Well, no shit! I’m trying to study this key point, but I can’t understand a word of this jumbled mess!”

You snorted in agreement, continuing your age-old studying diversion of taking Buzzfeed quizzes. So far, you’d learned you should move to Amsterdam immediately, and that you’d get married in thirty-six hours. “Exactly. That’s why I gave up like thirty minutes ago.”

Gwen let out a long-suffering sigh. “God. We were such foolish mortals to let those finals-free days escape us! Curses!”

You laughed. “Come over here and see what breed of dog best matches your feelings about cookie dough ice cream instead! I got Corgi and I don’t really know what that means for my life trajectory, but it feels pretty important.”

“Aww, I miss my dog.” Gwen’s bottom lip stuck out as she surveyed her notes. “I can’t wait to visit my parents and see him again.”

You nodded, returning to your quizzes, but Gwen narrowed her eyes suspiciously towards you. “And what exactly are you doing over break?”

“We’re eloping in Rome.”

The new voice made both of you jump as Blake, gangly and long-limbed, picked his way through the mess of papers littering the living room floor to plant a kiss on your lips. “It’ll be incredibly romantic and unexpected and so Millennial or Gen Z or whatever they’re calling us these days.”

You rolled your eyes as he flopped on top of you into the chair. “No. _You’re_ going to Rome _without_ me, because you’re an incredibly important person who has family to visit on the other side of the globe for some terrible reason.”

He pecked you on the nose. “You know I’d bring you with me if I could, right?”

You sighed. “I know.”

“Excuse me,” Gwen interrupted. “But, Y/N and I were actually doing some studying.”

“Oh, were you?” Blake raised an eyebrow towards your phone. “You know, I do seem to remember Corgis and cookie dough being crucial to a key understand of Orgo.” 

“Fuck off.” You shoved his shoulder, but you were grinning, and he knew he had won. “Okay, okay, I was taking a break, but Gwen was, I don’t know, trying to be a good nursing student-”

“Trying is the key word,” Gwen interjected, looking desolate from the floor. “Blake, how did you get through three years of nursing without wanting to die because I’m trying and failing.”

“The trick is to accept the wanting to die feeling,” he grinned. “Embrace it, and then accept that it is your new reality.”

Gwen groaned, collapsing backwards into the crunch of papers to closer her eyes, fingertips coming up to rub at her temples. “Okay, okay, fine, that’s cool, that’s great, I love it, really, I do, I love it.” She opened her eyes to look at you, “Y/N, you happen to have any painkillers lying around?”

“Sure. Check my bathroom.”

“Cool. Awesome. Time to go drug up.” You watched as your roommate disappeared into the other room, trying to ignore Blake’s persistent gaze as he twined your fingers together.

“What _are_ you doing over break? We haven’t talked about it.”

A shrug.

He shifted so that his hand was cupping the back of your head, running a thumb over your cheek. “I don’t want to think about you moping around this apartment by yourself for a whole month.”

You didn’t meet his gaze.

He sighed, squeezing your hand tight in his. “Bunny, why don’t you go back with Gwen? I’m sure she’d love to have you.”

You squeezed his hand back, focusing on the way his fingers looked intertwined with yours. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

He searched your face. “Then what…what is it?”

“I’m not sure I can describe it,” you whispered, which was the truth. “But I just…I feel like I need to go home.”

Whatever he was going to say in response was cut off as your phone vibrated. The caller id sent an electric jolt down your spine, and you were suddenly scrambling to your feet, pushing Blake off as he gave a confused, “Y/N?”

“I have to take this,” you told him, and you could only judge by the expression on his face that you looked as rattled as you felt.

You pulled yourself into the privacy of your room, hearing Gwen ask, “What’s wrong?” to a confused response from Blake before you held the phone up to your ear.

“May? What’s wrong?” Your left hand was clenching and unclenching itself into a fist as you waited. You felt that odd pulsing, the adrenaline rush of standing on a live wire, a kick through your whole body, but-

“Sweetie, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine.”

“What?” You sat down on your bed, a marionette with your strings cut, body not quite keeping up with mind. Fist still clenching, unclenching. “What do you…why are you calling me then?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” May said, and you could feel her concern through the phone. The tension in your body slowly started to unwind, though your fingers were still twitching in your palm, in out, in out. “I just wanted to talk to you. It’s been too long.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “I…I’m sorry. I overreacted, it’s just-”

“I know. It’s okay.” Just hearing her voice again slowed your heartrate considerably. “It’s okay. How’s school going?”

“It’s…going.” You let out a breathy laugh. “Finals week is finals week, but I’m nearly done. Just a few more exams.”

“I know you’ll ace them.” You could almost hear May smiling through the line. “You were always so bright, and you’ve done so well in school. I’m really proud of you, Y/N. You know that, right?”

You nodded, then realized she couldn't hear the nodding through the line. "I know."

“Good. Now listen, there was something else I was wondering.” May paused, and you felt your heartrate kick back up. “Are you coming back to Queens over break?”

“I’m…I’m not sure.”

“Do you want to come back?”

Wasn’t coming back what you wanted? But, suddenly, nothing seemed certain, and you felt incredibly out of place, not here in your apartment, Blake and Gwen laughing at some joke outside your door, not back home, back where memories were nestled in every stoplight and magazine stand. “I’m…I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

“Of course, you have somewhere to stay.”

“May, I couldn’t.”

“Yes,” May’s voice was kind, but firm. “Please, Y/N. Just think about it.”

You sighed. “I’ll think about it.” You couldn’t do it. You wouldn’t do it.

“May?” You just couldn’t help yourself.

“Hmmm?”

“You don’t…is…is Peter okay?”

There was a long silence. Too long. “Sweetheart, I haven’t seen Peter two years.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh okay, these chapters keep getting longer and longer (i think the next one should be closer to 3k or so hopefully??) but getting feedback from y'all has really made me want to expand these scenes/story and explore more...
> 
> i hope you guys are ready to dive deeper and deeper into the angst pool next chapter (and if you missed peter this chapter, don't worry, bc he may or may not be making an unexpected appearance in the future... ;) )


	4. homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angst + angst + first kiss? + unexpected visitors

_“So. What do you think?”_

_You were shoulder to shoulder with Peter on his bed, trying not to think about how his arm felt as it rubbed up against yours. About how, for the first time in your thirteen years of life, you were seeing your friend as boy boy boy. About how all you could think about was being nearer to him._

_For his part, Peter seemed oblivious to your recent infatuation. Which, maybe, was for the best. He had bigger things on his mind. Like a radioactive spider bite._

_“Think about what?” He was fiddling with one of his web shooters, making sure it sat correctly on your wrist._

_You ran a finger over the device. “Radioactive spiders. You. Me. Spidery crime fighting duo.”_

***

You made it back home.

It was odd, being here, the neighborhood you grew up in. Where the street signs gave you unexpected memories that sliced across your cheeks like razors, and donut shops brought you back to Sunday mornings with your father. Even stranger, though, were the absent memories. Of things that used to be. Street vendors who used to always be on the corner of 25thand Broad. A dog who would always bark as you passed below its apartment. A woman who would, without a doubt, ask if you needed some fresh roses on your way back home.

All of them were gone now. Lost to the passage of time; dead or forced to leave or tending to some sick brother upstate. It was odd, seeing their haunts abandoned. Like poking your tongue in the gap of a tooth you hadn’t realized you’d lost.

Your backpack’s straps were cutting deep into your shoulders, even though the bag itself wasn’t heavy. You were only staying for a few nights. That’s all you needed. May had tried to ply you for more, but 72 hours was all you had. Three days. Two nights. The bag felt weighty, but that didn’t make sense. You’d packed light.

There was a familiar tug in your stomach; a swirling pit of fear and desire and anxiety all packed into a knot the size of a peach pit and the weight of lead. _Come on._ You knew how to shove past that by now.

You knocked on the apartment door.

There was a rustling from inside, and then the door was opened, and you were in May’s arms. It had been so long since you’d had that type of hug. The soul crushing kind.

Her arms were tight, encircling you, pulling you inside, and the apartment had that smell, that smell of home, of being lived in, loved in, of soft-baked bread and fresh-picked flowers and Saturday morning comics, the smell you didn’t know you missed until you were suddenly back inside of it.

She kissed the top of your head before pulling away, holding onto your shoulder so she could smile up at you. Her fingers were so strong, as if they were anchoring you to this place, to this apartment, to this tiny kitchen. Like she _knew._

But, then again, she _did_ know. She was the picture of grace, of effortless beauty, long hair piled atop a dancer’s body, though you knew where to look for the cracks. For the eyes that sought yours, wanting wanting wanting to give. The conviction; you were certain that whatever you asked, she would do for you. Without question. Whatever it took. Her hands, rubbing your shoulders, created a friction that reminded you of being loved. Everything about May was giving. Only you knew it came from loss.

“You came.” She smiled, leading you into the kitchen and sitting you down, pressing a warm drink into your hands.

“Of course, I came.” You set your backpack down by your feet. And then, because you weren’t sure what else to say, “You wouldn’t believe how much Netflix I’ve watched these past few weeks. It’s going to rot my brain.”

She laughed, and the tension in the room evaporated a little bit. You clenched a fist tight as you looked at her- one woman, alone in an apartment made for two, made for three. The space seemed to swallow her whole, and yet, May wasn’t the type to be swallowed by inanimate things. She sat defiantly straight in her chair, chin up at an angle just high enough to be prideful.

“I remember all the Great British Bake-Off we watched together,” she smiled ruefully. Your eyes caught hers, studying hard. Fingers clenching into palm. “You’d think I’d’ve learned to make a decent cake after all that.”

How casually she could mention those days. The days after the reversal. You remembered those days too; when you couldn’t hold Peter’s hand without either of you flinching, when you were over in this living room and it was either you crying or Peter crying or Ned crying and yet somehow, somehow every night you’d end up on the couch, May in the easy chair, watching Great British Bake-Off.

You forced a smile to match hers. “I’ve made a couple quiches since then. They didn’t turn out half-bad.”

“Peter tried to make one once.” May was shaking her head, smile still on her face. “It turned out terribly, might I add, but the thought was nice.”

You were struck by a vision of Peter; covered in flour and egg yolks, one of May’s flowery aprons around his chest, brandishing a spoon in the air and animatedly declaring his quiche the best quiche to have ever quiched.

You were quiet, then, suddenly aware of Peter’s presence in the apartment. Of his backpack, still hung up by the door. His school pictures, that stupid gap-tooth grin he had freshmen year when his teeth _still_ hadn’t grown together yet, adorning the fridge. His favorite blanket still laid out on the couch. And, if you tilted your head just right, you could see the door to his room still open. Waiting, waiting.

“You’ve talked to him.”

The statement caught you off guard. “What?”

May shifted in her seat, eyes following your gaze to the open bedroom door. “Peter. You’ve talked to him, haven’t you?”

“I…” you faltered. What to say, what to say? These were the games you played. What lies to tell, what information to withhold. None of it malicious, at least on the surface. All of it to help, to protect the other person.

“It’s okay, honey.” May got up, walking over to the couch and sitting down, motioning for you to sit next to her. You followed woodenly, mug clutched like a lifeline in your hands. She gave you a moment to settle before speaking again, slowly, eyes on yours. “I know…I know it’s difficult.”

You shook your head against the tightness swelling up around your throat, against the tears welling in your eyes. This was stupid stupid stupid. Your fist clenched. “No, I just…” Your voice sounded foolish and not like your own. A wobbly, warped version of reality.

“Peter is…” May sighed, closing her eyes and wrapping both hands around her mug as if she needed the warmth. “He’s finding out…He’s, he’s grieving.”

“Grieving what?”

But you both knew. Grieving what you all grieved- the loss of your world, the loss of self, the fading into darkness, the destruction, the chaos. Grieving what only he grieved- the loss of parents, uncles, the ability to use his web shooters without his hands trembling uncontrollably, the skill of having a conversation without crying, the stupid goddamn fact that his childhood had been ripped from his fingertips.

“You said you hadn’t talked to him since…since we left for school?”

May nodded slowly, like her head was heavy weight. “I’ve gotten a few texts.”

“Texts?” You couldn’t help the incredulous anger seep into your voice.

May touched her hand to yours. “I know. It’s difficult. But I can’t believe he’ll keep this up forever. And I know…I know he’s safe at least.”

Those words smelled like they had Iron Man written all over them. “Stark?”

She nodded, giving a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That man’s got eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Mmm.” You wondered absently what Peter would have said to this revelation. Then again, it had been so long, you couldn’t guess his movements anymore.

“Was he…was he okay when you talked to him?”

You studied May’s face. Hopeful, searching. You couldn’t tell her anything but the truth. “He was…I don’t know. He was just like I remembered. But, he left. He stayed at my place, and we didn’t really have a chance to talk, but then, by morning, he was gone.”

May’s face was tight as she nodded. You wondered absently if you had let her down with this response. But what would she have wanted? A Peter who was a screaming mess? A Peter who was absent completely? What had _you_ wanted?

“I want him back,” you said, words surprising you, said out loud as they came into consciousness. Your fist twitched. “I know, it’s selfish, and it’s terrible, and he’s got to come back on his own time, but…”

May rubbed a thumb over your hand. She was comforting you again when you were supposed to be there comforting her, supposed to tell her that her son was alright. This was your job.

“It’ll be okay.”

But her words sounded so tired. Like they had been repeated thousands of times, each one meant so thoroughly and passionately that by the time they were said that night, they had already used all of their meaning right up.

***

_He turned towards you, face unreadable. Your heart fluttered at how close he was as he repeated, “’Spidery crime fighting duo?’”_

_You shot a web over his ceiling light. Your aim was nowhere near as accurate as his, but you were getting better. “You said yourself that you’d like a partner.”_

_“I know, I just…” he trailed off, eyes focused on the web shooter attached to your wrist. His fingers traced the metal down to the soft skin of your forearm. He didn’t look at you as he said, “I don’t want to end up messing things up between us.”_

_You tried to pretend you could think about anything but his fingertips on your skin. A shaky laugh. “Being dual vigilantes would mess things up?”_

_His fingers wrapped around your wrist, and he finally looked up into your eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean.”_

***

The next day, you made it out to the graveyard.

May drove you; winding through the tiny little roads in between the graves (it was always so odd to you, seeing cars drive through the rows, like they didn’t belong in this place). When May slowed, you looked out to see two headstones, gleaming bright and new. The worst kind of headstones.

“Want me to come?” May asked, but you shook your head.

“It’s alright.” The weight in your chest told you this was something you had to do alone.

It was a beautiful day, which seemed unfair. The melodramatic side of you wanted this all to be awful; a cold whipping wind, snow that seeped through your socks, face half-frozen off. Tears iced to your cheeks in some tragic but beautiful way.

But instead it was just quiet. Cold, but the sun was out. There was that strange winter warmth.

You stood in front of your parents’ headstones and waited.

You felt nothing.

You felt nothing.

Weren’t you supposed to feel _something?_ Weren’t gravestone visits meant for sobbing or for smiling and placing flowers, or feeling something, just fucking _feeling_ something? Weren’t you supposed to be just overwhelmed with the feelings of spirits and underworldly goodness that you told your parents everything, let them know how you were doing, asked them questions? Weren’t you supposed to be filled with an ethereal sort of happiness; an angsty longing because although you were no longer with them, you could feel their presence here? Or, at the very least, weren’t you supposed to be filled with an ethereal sort of sadness, the knowledge that they were there and you were here and weren’t exactly sure where there and here were but only that they were separate, not able to touch?

You felt nothing.

You stared at the shiny headstones, and you couldn’t even personify them enough to believe they were staring back at you.

You felt nothing.

They were dead, and they weren’t here, and you wanted to talk to them, to say something, to even be _angry_ at the fact that you couldn’t feel anything at all, but no words rose to your lips.

You felt absolutely fucking nothing.

You looked down at your watch. Five minutes had passed, and that seemed like enough time. An appropriate period to stand at your parent’s graves, an abandoned nineteen-year-old, old enough to be left behind in the world but not really old enough to function in it.

You turned and went back to May’s car.

***

_“What do you mean?” you asked, even though you knew. Or, at least, you thought you knew, thought maybe, just maybe, the feelings you had been bottling up for weeks now were in some way being reciprocated._

_“I…” he just looked at you, wide eyed and scared. And then you kissed him._

***

A plate of casserole steamed before you.

You came back to yourself clutching a fork in your right hand, left clenching into a fist. May was saying something to you. Giving you that look, the one people gave when you weren’t responding, but instead of feeling angry they felt sorry for you.

“What?”

A gentle smile. “I was just saying I feel too old for all of this. You’re all grown up now.”

“Yeah.” Your parent’s gravestones flashed in your mind. Your stomach rolled uncomfortably. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Again with that knowing look, a sympathetic smile this time. “How was visiting the graves?”

Your hand tightened around the fork. You had no desire to talk about the five minutes you’d pretended to care. It was embarrassing. “Fine.”

“Really?”

You looked down at the casserole. “Yep.”

She placed a hand on your knee, but you flinched away.

Something roiled within. “You don’t have to try so hard to fix me. It’s not like I’m your child.”

The words were out of your mouth before you could take them back. And, like the coward you were, all you could do was sit there and poke at the casserole with your fork, a green bean falling off the plate and onto the linoleum table.

May’s response was quiet. Even. “I know.”

And when you finally mustered up the courage to look her in the eyes, you could see it, the waiting. The questions. She knew you needed to talk.

You dissected the casserole further with your fork. “I didn’t feel anything. When I visited the graves.” May was quiet, waiting, so you continued, “I thought…I don’t know. I thought when I went and saw them maybe, maybe it would sink in, you know?” Your left fist clenched tighter, nails biting into palm. “I didn’t…I didn’t get to see them die. See them get killed.” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t get to see their bodies. I just…I just got to show up for the funeral. And they weren’t there anymore by that point. So, it was over anyway. They left without saying goodbye.”

There was suddenly an impregnable silence, and there was something swelling in your chest, throat closing up, eyes prickling, and you were stupid stupid stupid for saying it out loud, for putting the words out in the open where they sounded clunky and awkward and somehow devoid of the value they had rang with in your head.

You stabbed at the casserole violently. “What I said. About how I’m not your kid or whatever. I didn’t mean that.”

May was steadfast. “I know.”

“God.” You set down your fork, resting elbows forward on the table so the heels of your hands could dig into your eyes. Somehow the pressure helped you feel something again. “ _God._ We’re terrible to you. We really are. We’re awful.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” There were hands on your shoulders, rubbing your back, and somehow that just made you feel _worse_ , more like a fraud, more like someone who was just talking and talking and talking. “I’ve been through worse than this before. _We’ve_ been through worse than this. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“It’s not fair,” you whispered into your palms. “Everyone came back. Everyone came back after they died. It’s not…it’s not right for them to die now. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” May agreed, still rubbing in-between your shoulder blades. “It’s not.”

“I just…” You sat back in your chair, May’s hand shifting to squeeze your knee. “I just feel so _alone_ all the time. Like, like everyone’s leaving me, slipping away no matter how hard I try and hold them.”

May’s grip tightened on your knee. “That’s why I’m here. You didn’t grow up two floors above me for all these years for me not to care about you. You didn’t become Peter’s first kiss for me to leave you by the wayside. And you certainly didn’t watch all those episodes of Great British Bake-Off with me not to care about you.” She was smiling now, gently.

You tried to pull your face into an expression that matched hers. “I did see a lot of failed scones be made.”

May’s smile deepened, encouraged. “But that wasn’t all for nothing, right? You know I’m there for you? Whenever you need it?”

You nodded.

“What was that?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re there for me.”

“Whenever…”

“Whenever I need it.”

“That’s right.” May pulled you into a hug, crushing you tight against her chest. “Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” you mumbled against her shoulder.

“Good.” She pulled away, motioning to your still-untouched, mutilated casserole. “Now, eat. Or do you not like it?”

“No, no, it’s good.” You hadn’t had an appetite for months now. But you shoveled a few bites in your mouth as she watched, chewing mechanically.

May’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

You frowned. “What do you mean, ‘What’?” I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re still thinking about something,” she said accusingly. “I can practically see your wheels turning.”

“I just.” Fist clench. “I just…sometimes I wonder if there’s something I could have done.”

She frowned. “Could have done?”

“To stop it.” This was said in a whisper. “To stop them from being murdered.”

“Oh, honey, you can’t-”

“I know, I know I can’t blame myself, but,” you looked up at her, judging her face before continuing, “this is going to sound so so stupid, but Peter and I, we used to have this plan.”

May just waited, an eyebrow raised.

You closed your eyes, face flushing. “It sounds really juvenile now, more than juvenile actually, but we used to think that maybe there was still a spider out there, all souped-up on radioactive juice, that I could get bitten by, and then we would’ve fought crime together. A duo, or something.”

When you dared a look at May, you saw she was smiling. A sad sort of smile, but a smile all the same. The kind that knew how naïve it had been. The kind that still found it sweet.

“I know it’s absurd. Really. But sometimes I wonder…if I was…powerful, could I have stopped it all from happening?” The words fell like rocks from your mouth; heavy, and weightier than you had originally intended.

“It’s not your fault.” May said with conviction, taking your hands in her own and holding them tighter than was comfortable. “You have to believe that. You couldn’t have stopped it from happening. Your parents dying, that wasn’t your fault.”

“I…I know that.” It sounded like a lie, even to you. “It’s just. It’s hard.” Your voice was quiet. “I wish I could have stopped it all from happening.”

May nodded. “It is hard. Way, way harder than I ever thought. Than I ever dreamed.”

You didn’t trust your voice, going back to picking at the casserole.

“Y/N?”

“Hmmm?” You found May’s eyes once again.

She was smiling. “For what it’s worth, I think you and Peter would have made an incredible team.”

There was a knock at the door.

***

_Peter’s face was as red as his spider suit, palm sweaty in your own._

_“There,” you told him, sitting back, “now I’m the one who’s messed things up.”_

***

You hadn’t meant your parents’ deaths.

Earlier. With May. “I wish I could have stopped it all from happening.”

You did wish you could have stopped it. All of it. If you had been the one to wield the Time Stone, you would have turned back the clock even further. Stopped it all. Your parents’ deaths. Peter leaving. The world dying. The aliens coming. A certain boy stepping into a certain lab and getting bitten by a certain spider.

If you’d had the chance, you’d have stopped it all.

Stopped every goddamn second of it.

***

May got the door.

All it took was one lanky body standing in the entryway to end it all.

“Hey.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh okay these chapters have really started getting away from me. Hopefully this chapter really sets things in motion, because I promise you that there's some...interesting things to come.  
> Next chapter we get to see Peter and Y/N's reunion part two dun dun dunnnn  
> Also! Both Tony and Ned got mentioned in this chap and WILL be playing parts in the story a little later on. I had to give May her due diligence though because she is one of my fav characters AND she does not get enough love in fics. More May to come as well.  
> Let me know what you think in the comments! I love reading them; they really cheer me up/keep me motivated!


	5. peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peter visits home for the first time in years; there are some tough conversations to be had

He looked different from the last time you had seen him.

Last time, last time, he had been Spider-Man. A beat up, bloodied, and cavalier Spider-Man, certainly. But Spider-Man nonetheless.

Now, Peter Parker stood in the doorway. Looking impossibly older than you remembered. You stared unabashedly; surprise and shock winning over desires to remain inconspicuous.

He looked like a boy; a college kid come home over break. He was a vision you had seen in a thousand and one daydreams. His face was ducked, flushed pink, and there were freckles still making constellations of his cheeks. He was in a sweatshirt and jeans, shoulders broader now than you remembered. But most striking, perhaps, were his forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his sweatshirt. Your eyes traced the skin from fingers up past wrist. He wasn’t wearing his web shooters.

The moment breathed a pregnant pause, and you were all frozen. Insects trapped in amber. Peter biting his lip in the doorway. May, her fingers white knuckling the handle, squinting hard at her son.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, taking in a shaking breath. Then, “I taught you better than to be late for dinner, Peter Parker.”

Peter’s face twitched. His voice, just a whisper, as he replied. “I’m sorry.”

The amber shattered.

A flurry of motion, and Peter was in May’s arms.His eyes, wide in shock, her hands, squeezing him so tightly. He hugged her back with just as much vigor; so much taller than she was that he practically enveloped her in his grasp. His hands shook as he held her. He was crying. You looked away, feeling intrusive.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he blubbered into her shoulder, sniffing and wiping his eyes on the fabric of her shirt before continuing. “I didn’t mean to.” You looked away again. “I didn’t mean to screw up like this, I didn’t mean to leave, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. It’s okay.” May was running a hand from his shoulder to his spine, whispering back. “It’s okay, honey, shhh.”

You had a staring contest with your casserole.

May’s voice, again. “You’re back now, right? That’s what matters.”

“I…” his voice was hiccupping with a sob. “I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have done this to you.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

“I love you, May. I love you so so much.”

“I love you too, baby.”

Your chair made a loud screech against the floor as you stood up, fork clattering against your plate. “I should leave.”

Peter jumped, spinning towards you, hand still clutching for May’s as they broke apart. His face flushed. “Y/N?” Your heart was thumping in your throat as he looked at you; eyes red, nose running. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing, nothing, I really…this…I shouldn’t be here.” You were fumbling for your phone, your keys, whatever was in reach you could grab.

“Y/N, stay,” May said, taking a step towards you. “Please. We want you here.”

Peter looked towards the ground, wiping at his eyes. The ‘we’ seemed to be a bold assumption to make.

“I…” You tried to calm the racing of your heart. Tried not to stare at Peter’s naked forearms. “I don’t…”

“Please.” May touched a hand to your shoulder, guiding you back down into your chair. “Just stay for the rest of dinner at least. You’ve barely eaten.”

The casserole glared at you from your plate. You’d never felt less hungry. “Okay. Yeah, sure, okay. For dinner. I’ll stay for dinner.”

May’s smile was wider than you had seen in years. “Thank you. Now,” she turned to Peter, “let’s get some food in you. You’re looking skinny.”

He flushed further, eyes soft as he let May lead him over to the tiny table. You focused hard on your plate as he pulled back the chair next to yours. It was strange how his presence changed you. How aware you were of his arm sliding on the table next to yours. How much you wanted to reach out and grab it. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze it tight. Instead, you forced a bite of casserole to your lips, chewing mechanically.

You could feel Peter deliberately not looking at you. You deliberately not looking at him. He cleared his throat, accepting casserole from May with a word of thanks. The silence around the table felt palpable. Gelatinous.

“So,” May said, sliding a second helping Peter’s away as he devoured his first, “you gonna tell me what you’ve been up to for the past two years, or do I just get to guess?”

You sneaked a glance to your right. Peter was focusing hard on his plate, fork tracing patterns through the food. “I was at school.”

“Mmhm, yep, knew that much.”

His flush deepened, creeping out onto his neck and ears. “That’s really all. When I went to California, I think…I don’t know what I was thinking. I just needed, I needed to be alone. Or, at least, that’s what I thought.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It was just too much, too loud. I needed it to be quiet.”

You couldn’t look at him. You forced a glance to May instead; standing behind a chair, hands gripping the back, knuckles white. Her face was formed into some semblance of anger, of frustration, but you could see her eyes. She was scared, relieved, and oh so tired all at once.

“Oh, baby.” She crossed over to where Peter was sitting, pulling him against her, playing with his curls. You looked away.

Peter sniffed loudly. “I shouldn’t have done it. I know. I shouldn’t have gone to school all the way out there. I should have come back. I should have come back.”

“You did come back,” May told him. “That’s what’s important.”

Something was welling up inside of you, some indeterminate and scary and out of control. You stood up rapidly, the force knocking the table askew. Peter’s dish tipped off the edge, hitting the floor with a CLANG. “Excuse me,” you said, trying to ignore how your voice was shaking. “I think…I think I’m just going to lie down for a little while. A headache. I’ve got a headache.”

May was sympathetic. Peter wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Sure, of course, honey. You can go in my room if you want.”

You nodded woodenly, stumbling forward until you were out of their gaze. Hands shaking, you pulled on the knob as you heard May whispering. Peter crying. Your fist clenching; in out, in out.

***

_Your feet were tangled with Peter’s on the couch._

_It was the way you liked to sit; you against one arm rest, him against the other, legs in a pile in the middle. When you were feeling annoying, you would press cold toes up against his calves just to make him shiver. When he was feeling annoying, he’d use his foot to close your laptop. Many days were spent this way, Netflix on the TV in the background, a chosen electronic in each of your hands, not necessarily talking or doing anything together, but just existing in the same space, cold toes against calves._

_You were researching MIT student life. Peter was probably off trolling Reddit or something meaningless._

_“I want to join a club,” you said, which seemed like an innocuous enough start to a conversation. Then again, you never knew these days._

_“Hmmm?” He didn’t look up from his phone._

_“At MIT, when we go. I want to join a club, maybe several clubs, I don’t know. Everyone says clubs are important; I’m just not sure which ones I should join. Get involved and all that.” He didn’t say anything, so you kept clicking through the pages. “How would you feel about the Outdoorsman Club? We could go hiking or something. I don’t know, that might be good.”_

_“Yeah, maybe.” Something about his tone made you look up; his seeming nonchalance betrayed by the clench of his jaw. His eyes were still staring pointedly at his phone, though you could tell he wasn’t looking at it._

_“What?”_

_He had the audacity to act surprised, looking up at you with wide eyes. “What do you mean, what?”_

_You traced a pattern on his calf with your toe. “You don’t think hiking would be fun? You aren’t interested in persevering wildlife in the Massachusetts forests?”_

_His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “No, it’s just…”_

_“What?”_

_His gaze locked with yours. “I’m not going to MIT.”_

_Your chest recognized the information before your mind did; a swooping sensation as the floor dropped out from under you. “What?”_

_He sighed, shifting slightly in his seat, looking burdened, like he had_ known _, known for a while this was coming. “I don’t want to go to MIT. So, I’m not going.”_

 _The shock in your belly was re-solidifying, forming into something different and new. “What do you mean, you’re not going?” Your hand clenched into a fist as you continued, voice gaining traction. “We’ve…we’ve been talking about this for years. You, me, MIT. Two geniuses, one school of technology. Now, granted, I know you may feel threatened by the fact I’m_ still _ahead of you in class rankings…”_

_He didn’t even smile at the joke._

_“Oh my god, are you fucking serious?”_

_He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why would I not be serious?”_

_You threw your hands in the air. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’ve never talked about going_ anywhere else _? Because we were going to do this together, because we’ve been talking about doing this together since we were_ five years old _?”_

_He was shaking his head. “People change. Things we want change.”_

_You couldn’t help the incredulous noise that escaped your mouth. “Seriously? Seriously. You’re telling me people change.”_

_“I don’t know what you want me to say, Y/N.”_

_You didn’t have anything to say. There was a moment of silence. Neither of you moved. Neither looked at each other._

_When you spoke again, it was quieter. “Where do you want to go, then?”_

_“California.”_

_Your eyes snapped up to meet his. “The west coast?”_

_He nodded, but it looked unsure. “Stanford.”_

_“Stanford?”_

_He rolled his eyes. “Do you have to repeat everything back to me?”_

_You bit back your retort. “I just…it’s unexpected. That’s all.”_

_He shrugged. “People change.”_

_“Yeah.” Your voice was wobbly and stupid sounding. “You already said that.”_

_You pulled your laptop back open, hoping to distract yourself, ignore the dizzying spinning in your head. A happily involved member of MIT’s Outdoorsman Club smiled back up at you from the screen._

_“Are you trying to run away?”_

_You shouldn’t have said it, you shouldn’t have said it, but you had to, you had to._

_Peter didn’t look up from his phone. “No.”_

_“Okay.” You clicked on another club._

_“Stanford’s a great college.”_

_MIT’s Robotics Team was showing off their winning trophy. “Yep.”_

_“Bug…”_

_You looked up, and you could tell he was hurting, and this was the time, the time when you were supposed to go and comfort him, go and rub his shoulders and say it was all going to be okay._

_You snapped the laptop shut. “I have to go.”_

_He smiled a twisted, angry smile. “I scare you off?”_

_You didn’t give him the benefit of seeing your teary eyes. “Yeah. Something like that.”_

***

There was knock on the door.

You closed your eyes, wiping unconsciously at your cheeks, though they were dry. “I’m fine, May.”

The door cracked open, a sliver of light dancing in. “It’s me.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders stiffened, and you turned. Peter. Silhouetted against the door frame. He was fuller now; a filled-out version of himself. Thicker shoulders, harder hands. More…more solidly there? Did that even make sense?

“I owe you an apology.” He took a step inside the room tentatively, looking for your approval. You didn’t move. He sat beside you on the bed, and you focused on his hands wringing together. “A couple weeks ago. I shouldn’t have done that.”

You laughed, and you meant for it to sound cold and disinterested, but it just came out wobbly instead. “Yeah. Yeah, it was a pretty shitty thing to do.”

He sighed deeply, and it was as though you could feel the weight pressing on his chest. “I didn’t know what to do. I’d been thinking about coming back for a while, about talking to you, talking to May. I just didn’t know how to do it. I _still_ don’t know how to do it. I don’t know why I did any of this.”

“Because you needed for it to be quiet.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment. Fingers twisting in on themselves. “I guess so.”

“You said it yourself at dinner.”

“I know, but,” he looked up at you earnestly, “I still shouldn’t have done it.

“I needed,” he shook his head, amending, “I _thought_ I needed to shut everything out. That didn’t work as well as intended.”

“Was it, though?”

He looked at you sharply. “Was it what?”

“Quiet.”

“Yes.” He was squeezing his palms together so hard his knuckles were blanched white. “Too quiet.”

“Oh.”

There was a sort of awkward silence that fell between you then, the weight of a thousand and one unanswered questions on lips that couldn’t find the courage to speak. Peter twitched beside you, his hoodie brushing up against your arm.

He tried for a more casual tone. “How’s your break been? Besides this, I mean.” He gave self-deprecating smile you couldn’t return.

“It’s been fine.”

You tried for a casual tone to match his own, but something must have tipped him off in your voice, because he was squinting towards you now, eyebrows creased in the center. You could almost see the cogs turning in his brain, eyes finding the duffle bag by your feet. “Are you…you’re staying here?”

“Yeah.” It took all your strength, all your strength to stay still and impassive. Like a rock. A stone.

Peter pressed on. “But, that doesn’t make sense. Is your family away? Did they go on vacation and leave you? Did-”

“My parents are dead, Peter.” The words sounded like they were spoken by someone else, someone far far away.

All the air seemed to deflate around him, and he pulled away from you, shaking his head. “What?”

“They were murdered. Last year. In their apartment.”

“I’m sor-” the words died on his lips, and he was shaking his head more violently now. “Y/N, I didn’t know.”

Your fist clenched, and for the first time since you turned to stone, there was a flash of white hot anger. “I called you.”

His eyes, wide, shocked, boyish.

“I called you, Peter. I called _you_. Not my friends at school, not Ned, not MJ, not that lady who used to give us free samples from the chocolate shop, no, I called Peter Parker. I called and called and called and he _never_ responded.” Your voice was steadily rising, a balloon in your chest. “He never even texted.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a little boy’s.

“That’s the wrong answer.” Your voice was a whip.

His face was screwing up like he was going to cry again. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t get to say anything! That’s the point!” You stood up, pointing a shaking finger towards his chest. “You don’t get to say sorry and you don’t get to tell me you cared because you didn’t! You didn’t! So it doesn’t matter!”

His eyes were closed and he was crying now and it pissed you the _fuck_ off to see fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “It does matter. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Your voice was a yell now. “No, see, this doesn’t get to be about you! This doesn’t get to be a pity party for the terrible person you’ve been. This gets to be about me for just _one fucking time._ It gets to be about me.”

Silence. Your chest was heaving. He was still crying.

You had never felt further from tears.

He made to stand up, “I should go.”

“No.”

He shifted, standing anyway, and without thinking, you shoved your hands against his shoulders. He froze.

“No more leaving.”

He sat back down.

You sat on the floor, across from him now, sliding down the wall until your head was in your hands. You pulled on your hair until it hurt, and you felt something again.

“I’m so tired of this,” you told him, and it was a whisper.

“I know.”

“I don’t know whether we can do this.” And you met his eyes. “Going round and round.”

“I know.”

“But,” you focused on your fingertips, on a spare piece of yarn that had frayed from your shirt, “I don’t know if there’s another way. We tried…you tried the whole cold shoulder thing. That didn’t work.”

He was silent.

“And if there’s one thing I know,” you worked the yarn into a knot, “it is that I can’t do this halfway shit. You don’t get to swing into my life when you feel like it and then swing back out when you get scared.”

His jaw clenched, a vein in his forehead pulsing tight. “That’s fair.”

“But I don’t know if we can survive doing anything else. I don’t know if I want to.”

He flinched. “Okay. Okay.”

“Well?” You threw the piece of yarn towards him. “What do you think?”

He didn’t respond right away, watching the yarn fall in front of him before snatching it out of the air. “I think you make valid points.”

“And?”

The yarn twisted around his fingers. “I have to try and make amends. I have to. If I’m given the chance, I’m going to try and fix things. May, for instance.” He tied the string off, and you watched as the top of his finger swelled pink. “I don’t deserve anything she’s given me. I’ve hurt her, time and time again, made her worry so many times. And she raised me, she believed in me when…” he trailed off, shaking his head, finding his resolve. “If she’s going to give me a second chance, I’m going to do it right. And that goes for you too. For us.”

There was no “us” anymore. But you didn’t say that. You could tell in his eyes that wasn’t what he meant.

He continued. “I applied to Empire State. To transfer. And I got in. I was going to start there next semester, but I’ll only go if you’re okay with it.”

You were silent.

He broke the string from his fingers. “I need to be close to May again, to be back home. If you wanted, we wouldn’t even have to interact, we could just, I don’t know, be people who smile and wave at each other on the street or something. I can’t promise you wouldn’t see me around, but I’d try and make myself scarce. But I won’t go if you don’t want me there.”

You took a shaking breath. “No. No, I…of course you can go to Empire too. That doesn’t bother me.”

The wide eyes were back. “You sure?”

“Of course.” You weren’t sure. You’d never been further from sure.

His shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you. Thank you, seriously.”

There was another silence, but this one felt different. Like…like stretching your legs at a gas station in the middle of nowhere on a road trip. Where miles were behind but miles were ahead, and somehow anything still seemed possible.

Peter looked down at you from the bed, features soft, eyes still watery. You couldn’t help yourself. In a heartbeat, you were beside him on the covers, pulling his head against your shoulder, against your neck, holding him, squeezing him tightly against your chest, feeling his heartbeat against your own. His arms held you just as strong, and you stayed like that for a long time.

Part of you was scared that if you gripped him too tightly, he would fall away from you again. The other part, sighed, took a breath, and pressed a kiss against his curls anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello beautiful people! sorry that this chapter is a little bit delayed- i've been moving all week and just got around to editing this. 
> 
> hopefully you still really like it though! i wanted to kind of explore peter and y/n's relationship as just that...a relationship between two kids trying to figure it out. as i was writing, i noticed that their chemistry/dynamic in the scenes in which peter is spider-man was much more suave and bantery. however, when the shit hits the fan and peter is just himself, things are a little bit more...raw? idk if that makes any sense, but it was kind of interesting to explore.
> 
> regardless! things are not over for these two! although some important steps have been made in important directions, things won't be easy now that they both are going to the same college, and there's still the uneasy fact that y/n's parents didn't just die...they were killed...
> 
> anyway I apologize, I'm tired and rambling but I LOVE YOU GUYS, and let me know your thoughts below, I love reading them!


	6. k.o.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff? Or is it angst? Or is it both? Also pizza

_“Peter. Peter.”_

_You were lost, you were so utterly lost, so over your head it was comical, almost laughable. He was holding your hands so tightly they throbbed with an important kind of throb, like a ‘let me go right now or we will stress fracture’ sort of throb._

_“Peter.”_

_He scrunched his eyes tight, so tight, hands squeezing harder, harder around your own. A sob broke in the back of his throat._

_You were in the dorm room cleaning supply aisle of Target._

_The news anchor continued to drone on in the background, a special tv announcement had been played over the loud speakers, because, “Today marks the third anniversary of the Infinity War, an anniversary many…”_

_His fingers twitched in yours, and he was sinking towards the floor. “It’s okay, I’m…”_

_“Don’t you even think about lying to me, Peter Parker.”_

Blake sat down beside you in the comfy chairs near the front of the library. He passed you a lukewarm latte, droning on about something on the news. You stopped watching the news years ago, after Spider-Man stopped making headlines, after Stark Industries had officially sold off all properties but the old compound upstate, after everyone had forgotten about their favorite neighborhood vigilante-

“Y/N?”

“Hmmm?” You looked up from your lap top. Blake’s face was tense, if not slightly hurt.

“Have you been listening?”

You considered lying.

 

_“Peter, you have to breathe. Look at me, look at me.” You took one of his hands and placed it over your chest. “Listen, listen, feel my heart.”_

_He was gasping now, curling in on himself like a piece of paper burning in a bonfire. “I can’t bring any…I c-can’t bring any of them back.”_

_“What?”_

You sipped the latte for something to do.

Blake set his bag down, still obviously miffed. “What are you so enraptured in, anyway?”

You considered snapping the laptop closed before he could look, but he was faster, face darkening as he took in your screen. “I thought we were over this, babe. You can’t bring them back. You know that, right?”

 

_His eyes locked on yours. “All the people…” His chest heaving, eyes panicked. “I couldn’t save.”_

_You frowned, pressing his hand harder against your heart. “It’s not-”_

_His gaze cleared, just slightly, “It is my job. Don’t say it’s not.”_

_You worked your jaw. “But-”_

_He yanked his hand out of your own, hard enough to hurt. “Don’t. Say. It’s. Not.”_

You closed the laptop before he could look any farther. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sat back in his chair, contemplative. Like he was considering arguing with a three-year-old for the fiftieth time about why the sun came up every morning. When he spoke, it was slow and measured. “It’s supposed to mean that I care about you. I care about what you’re going through. And I really, truly, honestly don’t think obsessively researching your parent’s murders is going to gain you any sort of peace or acceptance.”

You pursed your lips. “It’s not obsessive.”

“Okay.”

It almost made you angrier, to see his eyebrows raise, lips remain quiet.

You squared your shoulders. “It’s not. Honest to God. It’s not. It’s okay for me to want answers.” But the words sounded hollow, even to you.

“Okay.”

And that was the end of it.

 

_The end of it all came short and fast._

_You sitting in a Target aisle. He next to you. Wearing a Stanford sweatshirt._

_Only this time you got to break his heart before he broke yours._

“Hello?”

You pulled in a shaking breath, holding the phone tighter in your hand. “Hey.”

His voice was tense. “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

You watched Blake’s retreating back walking away. Something twisted in your gut. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“Oh, okay.” Peter’s voice softened slightly. “Why, uh, why did you call, then?”

Something in you twisted with guilt. You had promised him, after that day at May’s, you would call him when you were both back on campus. When you were ready. You were a couple weeks late on that promise.

You closed your eyes, trying to muster an ounce of courage. “I thought maybe we could meet up? Maybe you would want to come over to my apartment when you weren’t all bloodied and beat up?”

The line was quiet, and you tried to imagine his facial expression. “I…sure. Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Awesome.” It was strange, how your words felt stilted. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Awesome,” he agreed.

You hung up the phone.

 

***

 

There was a knock on your apartment door.

You smoothed sweaty palms across your jeans, trying to calm your nervous breathing. It was foolish to be nervous like this. It was Peter. You had spent hours, no, days, with him before. It wasn’t as though this casual hang out would be anything different. Except, the past few times you had seen him hadn’t been normal. He was beat up or he was crying or you were crying or so on. It had been a while since you had had a normal conversation.

You opened the door.

He was standing in the hallway, a bouquet of crumpled flowers in his hand. He proffered them towards you, that goofy grin on his face, “Housewarming gift. Since I still feel bad about the couch.”

You took the flowers, holding their stems carefully in a palm. They were wildflowers. Your favorite. “Thank you.”

“Mmmhm.” He stepped inside, looking around. “This is nice.”

“Yeah.” You rustled around in the cabinets for a vase for the flowers. “I really like it.”

“Any chance I could use your bathroom really quick?” he asked, a stupid smile on his face. “I was rushing over here and didn’t get a chance.”

“Sure,” you told him, pointing in the direction of your room. “It’s right through there.”

You busied yourself putting the flowers in a vase while he was gone, setting them up on the kitchen counter until he came back in, sitting down on the newly furnished couch.

“You like it?” You sat down next to him.

His fingers traced the suede, and he looked up at you, blushing. “Sorry. Again.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You excited for class to start?”

“I guess so.” You traced patterns to match his own. “Are you?”

“Mmm.” He considered his hands. “I’m not sure.” When he looked back up at you, his eyes were wide and honest. “I haven’t always dealt well with the stress.”

You swallowed, hard. “I’m sure you’ll be alright.”

Your words sounded off. Like both of you were reading from a previously agreed upon script. Some selfish part of you wished for the uncomfortable conversation you had shared in May’s bedroom over the stilted sort of small talk one would expect from two strangers.

He smiled at you, softly. A silence yawned empty and endless. You fidgeted with the couch.

Then, Peter turned, looking towards the door, and a moment later you heard the key in the lock. Gwen entered in her usual whirlwind fashion, arms were full of grocery bags that were dramatically set on the counter, freehand to pushing sunglasses up on her forehead so her hair fell around her face in wisps.

She was already chattering away. “Okay, so I got a bunch of things, I didn’t really have a list when I went shopping, so you know how _that_ goes. I mostly just grabbed whatever looked good in the moment, so I hope you weren’t looking for anything in particular. I got those-” She looked up, eyes catching on the couch for the first time. Her eyes narrowed towards Peter. “Do I know you?”

“I-” Peter began, but she was already holding up a hand, cutting him back off.

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me, I’ve got this. You’re…Peter. First love, ultra-geek, intriguingly not as socially awkward as I would have thought, the one whose blood was all over my couch.”

His face flushed, but he tentatively matched her smile. “The one and only.”

She appreciated this, nodding. “Nice. Okay. Cool. Was totally not expecting you here, but I’m rolling with it. You going to make a habit of hanging around, or are you going to stop by every once in a while, and fuck with my friend’s feelings?”

The red on his cheeks deepened. You stepped in. “Peter’s going here, to Empire, now. We’re, uh…” You looked at the boy beside you, trying to figure just _what_ it was you were trying to accomplish together. “We’re trying the whole friend thing again.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow, but her smile was still kind. “Hmm, okay. In my experience, usually you don’t have to _try_ to be friends, but to each their own traumatic backstory, I guess.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably beside you. Your hand curled into a fist, squeezing hard.

“Anyway.” Gwen smiled. “That grocery shopping really took it out of me, I’m going to go nap and pretend we don’t have class tomorrow. Help yourself to the food though, you look hungry, Peter.”

She left and left the two of you in silence again. You swallowed hard; the best things in life were scary, you could do it. You turned to Peter.

“Let’s make something,” you said. “To eat. Gwen’s right, I know you’re hungry.”

He forced a small smile. “You want to cook?” he sounded slightly incredulous, and you laughed a little.

“I’ve gotten _much_ better at cooking, I’ll have you know,” you said, shoving him a little. You stood up, offering him a hand, which he accepted, following you over to the counters. “Now, that may mean that I have only graduated from making PB&J’s to making boxed macaroni and cheese, but I _have_ gotten better.”

He was grinning now, “Okay, Chef Y/L/N, what are we making today, then?” He poked around in your pantry. “Gourmet cereal? Minute oatmeal?” He pulled open the fridge, rifling around a little more. He pulled out a jug of milk, contemplating. “We could make pancakes.” He opened the milk, sniffing it for a moment before yanking away, face screwed up in disgust. “Just kidding, we’re definitely not doing anything that involves milk. When was the last time you used this? It smells like it’s been in there for months.”

You pressed your lips together. “It might have been.”

“Y/N!” But he was laughing now. “Come on, I taught you better than that!”

“I’ve forgotten all your lessons!” you said, grinning now too. “That’s why I said _we_ could cook something. You don’t want me solely responsible for any part of any meal.”

“No, no,” he brandished a spoon, gathering ingredients together on the island. “This is much, much worse than I thought it would be. I think you need to prove yourself to me to earn back my trust.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a challenge, Parker? I invite you into _my_ home, offer you _my_ food, and suddenly _you’re_ telling me what to do?”

He shrugged, that stupid impish expression you loved on his face. “Maybe.”

You crossed arms over your chest. “Fine. Fine. I’m not afraid of a little challenge. In fact, I love challenges. Rise to them, in fact. What are we doing?”

His eyes scanned the ingredients, and he unconsciously stuck his tongue slightly out of his mouth as he thought. “Hmmm. Well, we’ve got a very intriguing collection of choices thanks to the shopping. Tomato sauce, gummy worms, garlic bread, a new milk (that’s good thinking at least), a dozen cupcakes, pineapple, and some…well, actually a lot of kombucha. Like I am honestly surprised any human could consume that much kombucha on a normal grocery run schedule. So…”

“Pizza?” you asked.

He looked at you like a proud five-star chef might look at their young protégé. “Exactly. One pizza made by yours truly, and one by you. Then we’ll rank them to definitively prove your chef skills.”

“Or lack thereof.”

He smiled. “Or lack thereof.”

“I’m game.” You took an apron off a hook in the pantry and looped it over his head. “But you can wear the apron, because you’re the real chef.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Only time will tell that.”

You both started on the dough, and by both you mean you stayed one step behind Peter and watched exactly what he did. Somehow, though, as you both were kneading your respective doughs, yours looked nothing like his. His was forming into a respectable looking dough ball, yours was…

“A mess.” Peter said, though his face was impish. “That looks like an absolute mess, I’m sorry.”

“Hey!” You flicked flour in his direction. “Rude! I think my dough looks great, thank you very much.”

He poked a finger in its center. It stuck to his hand. “Bug, I’m sorry, but your dough is absolute shit.”

“Is not!”

He sighed, stepping towards your section and pushing you aside with his hip. “Let me see if we can fix this.” He shoved the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to start adding flour to the dough, but something inside of you froze.

He looked at you as if sensing your discomfort. “You gonna help, or just stand there?”

You reached out, frowning. “You aren’t wearing your web shooters.” Your fingers paused just before touching him, unsure.

“Oh.” He stopped kneading, eyes following your fingers down to his wrists. “Yeah, I just…” He swallowed. “I take them off, sometimes.”

“Oh, okay.” You waited for him to keep kneading, but he didn’t move. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s alright.” He started kneading again, almost mechanically. “You didn’t know.”

You were quiet, watching him work for a little while. His face furrowed, as he focused, adding flour and then another egg, shaking his head and muttering under his breath every once in a while. You stayed quiet, watching as he frowned.

“Something bothering you?” you asked, and his face pinked.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, rolling out both the doughs now.

“If you want to know whether we can order pizza in instead, the answer is definitely yes,” you told him. “I’ve got plenty of pizza points at this one place. I bet we can get a free soda or something.”

He laughed. “Listen, _my_ dough is going to turn out perfectly fine. And I think I’ve salvaged yours.”

“If you say so.” You looked at both balls dubiously, but he was right. They didn’t look terrible.

“I do. Have faith.” He proffered his towards you. “Here, you can decorate mine.”

You grabbed the marinara. “Okay, so what did you want to ask?”

The crinkle between his eyebrows returned. “I found papers in your room. About your parents.”

You automatically stiffened. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh?” he tactfully looked at his marinara.

You sighed, envisioning all the arguments with Blake. “I just…I need more answers.”

“I understand.”

He said it with such sincerity that you looked up at him, surprised, because he _did._ He did know. He was one of the only people who might know.

You still didn’t see his next words coming, however.

“Do you want…help?”

“Help?”

He fixed a spot you had missed with the sauce. “Finding their murderer. Getting peace. I’m good at research. I could help you.”

“Peter, I-”

You both froze as the door opened again, Peter whipping around, shoulders tense.

“Hey babe! I got us pizza because I just had a feeling…” Blake trailed off as he entered the kitchen, pizza boxes in hand, eyes finding the dough, the boy beside you.

There was complete silence as he set the boxes down on the counter.

“Blake, this is Peter,” you said tentatively.

Blake’s face darkened. “Oh, I know exactly who he is.”

And then he punched Peter square in the jaw.

  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies! i hope you had an awesome week.
> 
> this chapter was so so difficult to write but i think i’m happy with how it turned out. i wanted to explore relationships; how different relationships work/change…so hopefully i achieved part of that. gahh i don't even know if i'm being coherent, it's been a longgg week and I'm so tired, so i really hope you guys like this and are excited for what's to come, because i promise there's much much more fluff and angst (and pls don't worry, peter and y/n's relationship is nowhere even close to being out of the woods yet).
> 
> if you enjoyed, pls leave a comment and let me know what you thought! i love hearing from you guys! <3


	7. target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we deal with the consequences of your current boyfriend punching your ex-boyfriend in the face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in this chapter i use she/her pronouns for y/n, but if you would like to read a gender neutral version of this story, you can look for this chapter (not yet posted)/future chapters where pronouns are used on my tumblr (which is also @hvllanders) <3

Peter’s head snapped to the side, smacking against the fridge as he stumbled backwards. Hands came up to his face instinctively, red flashing against his fingers, nose blooming blood.

“Blake!” You threw yourself in front of Peter as your boyfriend moved closer, fist still raised. Your hands on his shoulders, shoving away from Peter, but he wasn’t moving, neither of them were moving, and Peter wouldn’t fight back, you knew you he wouldn’t fight back.

Blake’s fist was trembling in the air. “He deserved that.”

 “What are you talking about?” Your voice wasn’t your voice, it was an ugly, high-pitched, childish version of how you spoke; trembling and unsure. “Look, at him, Blake, he’s fucking bleeding.”

“He knows he deserves it,” Blake’s eyes were burning, jaw set in stone. “Don’t you?” Peter’s eyes were wide, unreadable, his hand holding his nose, which was gushing blood. “You weren’t there all those months she was all torn up over you. You weren’t there when her parents died. In fact, if I’m remembering correctly, you wouldn’t even answer her calls. So I don’t really give a flying fuck about what you were going through; I don’t care if you were failing all your college classes, I don’t care if your left forearm got amputated, I don’t even care if you were out fucking saving puppies from sewer drains, you don’t do that to someone.”

“Blake,” you whispered, but he wrenched himself of your grip. Peter hadn’t moved.

“No.” He brushed your hand off his shoulder. “No, he doesn’t get to do all that and then waltz up in your life like nothing’s changed. Don’t you know what she told me after you ditched out on her all those times? She told me, ‘Blake, he can’t help it. He’s trying so hard to be the hero, he’s his own villain. He’s my villain.’ How does it feel? To know you made someone feel like that?”

You sucked in a breath. “Blake.” You didn’t dare look at Peter. “Blake, this isn’t your place.” But part of you whispered that it was; that Blake _had_ been there for you all those months. That he wasn’t entirely wrong. Your heart was thundering somewhere down in your feet, and you felt lightheaded and woozy. Like someone had held you upside down for too long. “Maybe you should go.”

His face flitted through hurt before settling into a mask of indifference. “Whose side are you on anyways?”

“There aren’t sides,” you told him, but he had already grabbed his wallet and spun towards the entryway. The apartment rattled as he slammed the door behind him.

Peter knelt down beside the fridge, his nose cradled in his hands. You noticed Gwen for the first time standing in the doorway of her room. Her eyes danced between Peter and you. Both frozen. Unmoving. It was as though you were watching the scene unfold from afar; a passive player in all the events.

Gwen stepped towards Peter, kneeling down on his level and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? Is it just your nose?”

“Yeah.” Peter winced as her fingers probed at his face. “Yeah, it’s fine, really.”

“It looks broken.” Gwen’s voice sounded concerned. You couldn’t see her face from where you stood. Couldn’t move your feet to get a better perspective. Rooted to where you currently were planted.

He pushed her hands away from his face gently but firmly. “I’m fine. Honestly.”

“I just-”

But he was already straightening back up to a standing position; hand bracing the countertop as he winced and swayed.

“Peter,” you started, though you had nothing else to say to him. Why did he look so betrayed? Why was there a sinking pit of guilt and shame twisting its way around in your gut?

His eyes fixed on yours. “I would really like to leave.” A hand reached up and flicked towards his nose. There was a CRACK and then he winced and more blood was gushing out. You had seen him set his own nose more times than you could count, and you still flinched every time. “But you said no more leaving.” He tore a paper towel off the rack next to the sink and wiped blood off his lip. “So, you tell me what you want me to do.”

You didn’t know what to say. You never knew what to say. “I’m sorry.”

He rolled his eyes.

It was so unlike him, so almost malicious in nature, that you stepped back, nails biting into a fist by your side. Tears pricked your eyes, which wasn’t fair, this wasn’t fair, this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, not even close.

He clenched his jaw, looking down at his hand, at the crusted blood. When he looked back up at you, you could almost imagine tears in his eyes as well. “Is that all I am to you?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The villain?”

 _No,_ you wanted to scream. _I said that when I was hurt and alone_. But your lips wouldn’t move.

His fingers wiped along his nose again, though it had stopped bleeding. His eyes locked on yours, big and wide and earnest. You wanted to look away. “Y/N,” his voice was deadly quiet, “this is your turn to say something. This is your turn to say something, because I’ve already said it all. I’ve told you I’m sorry. I’ve told you I screwed up. I’ve told you I’m going to try and make it up to you. But now it’s your turn to tell me…” he trailed off, looking back down at his hands. The smallest of tears slipped from his eyes, and he scraped them away angrily, quickly, before they could get to his cheeks. His lip was still quivering. “You know what it all did to me.” His gaze flickered to Gwen, still crouching by the fridge, frozen, tactfully not looking at either of you. His eyes closed, and another tear escaped; you wanted to reach out and wipe it away. “I’m so _fucked_. I’m so royally fucked up. And I’m trying to fix it, I really am. But you, of all people, you should know how hard it is. Don’t you?”

You still stayed frozen. Gwen’s eyes were boring into your own; daring you to say something, anything. But you couldn’t find the words.

Peter laughed; a broken, defeated thing. He nodded a little bit, biting his lip as he lightly tapped a fist on the counter. When his eyes found yours again, they were guarded. “You hurt me too, you know. Every time you give up on me. And that’s okay.”

He grabbed his keys, eyes watching you. “Can I leave now? Or would that be another tally against me?”

You frowned. “I’m not keeping score.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Peter.” You reached out to touch his forearm, the blood, but he flinched away.

“Don’t touch me.” His face was turned, but you could see the heaving of his chest, see past the guarding of his eyes. He was falling apart. Because of you.

“Peter.” It was just a whisper.

He wouldn’t look up at you. “Can I go now?” Softer. “Please?”

 

***

 

_“Peter.”_

_He wouldn’t let you touch him. He was curled up in the Target aisle, knees drawn up to chest and his Stanford sweatshirt pulled up over his hands, pressed against his eyes._

_“I need to take them off, I need them off, I need them off,” he was saying. Eyes still closed. Shoulders turned from you._

_“Need what?” You tried to trace his fingers with your own, but he flinched away. Right. No touching. “Peter, please. I’m trying to help.”_

_In a flash of movement faster than humanly possible, his wrists were extended in front of you, his fingers scrabbling at something, face desperate. “I want them_ off _!”_

_His web shooters. “Here, here.” With careful hands you pushed his fingers away, undoing the clasps for him, so the devices fell into your lap. You stuffed them into your purse before he could look at them any longer._

_It didn’t matter. His face was back in his hands, scrubbing at his eyes. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”_

_It felt as though there were an impossible chasm between you two; like somewhere along the way you had turned left and he right and you hadn’t realized until it was too late, until your paths diverged in yellow wood led to two innumerably different places._

_“God,” he was still talking, “I can’t wait until I’m so far away from this goddamn place I never have to see anyone again, I never have to hear about fucking Spider-Man ever again, I never have to hear anyone ask me if I’m okay ever again.”_

_“Peter.” You were just whispering now._

_“I can’t wait for it.” His finally looked up at you, and his eyes were hard and far away. “I can’t wait until I’m alone and no one talks to me.”_

_“Peter.” You wouldn’t cry, you wouldn’t cry now, because he had already cried, and one was enough. One was enough._

_“What?”_

_“I don’t know if I can do this.”_

_He frowned down at his hands. “Do what?”_

_You thought it would be difficult to say the next words, you thought you would have to force yourself, knowing it was for the best, knowing you had been on this path for a while now, knowing you were not equipped to handle the current mess that was both you and Peter Parker put together in some sort of bastardized puzzle._

_“Us.”_

_It turned out, it wasn’t difficult at all._

_“Really?” His tone was incredulous; an angry smile twisting his features. He was so far away from you. So so far away. This was the right thing to do. Cut him loose, maybe he would come back eventually. Maybe not. Maybe that was a risk you had to take. “Really? You’re going to break up with me in a fucking Target? Is this what we’re doing?”_

_“Peter.”_

_He turned his face from you. “I can’t believe this.” His voice was angry, but you hadn’t known this boy for nineteen years not to miss how he sniffed, wiping at his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”_

_“Peter-”_

_He whipped back towards you, eyes red. “Stop fucking saying my name like you’re some kind of broken record.” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “God, it’s like you’re reading from a script half the time.”_

_You pushed on, undeterred. “I think we need some time apart. To heal.”_

_He was shaking his head. “You can’t do this to me.” He looked back up towards you. “Please don’t do this to me.”_

_Why couldn’t you feel anymore? Someone had reached inside and stolen your heart or your brain or your stomach or whatever made you human. “I can’t help you, Peter. We’re hurting each other. That’s all that’s happening here.”_

_His face was back in his hands. He didn’t respond._

_“I called May,” you told him. “She’s coming.”_

_He was a statue._ Boy curled beneath three-subject notebook display- _a study in panic._

_“I’m sorry,” you told him._

_He didn’t move._

_You waited for him to cry, for him to be angry, for him to be anything. But he didn’t move._

_Before you; a cataclysm of emotions dangling just below the surface, waiting to emerge._

_You left before May arrived._

_It wasn’t until you screamed inside your car that you realized the web shooters were still in your purse. You’d never given them back._

_***_

i.

He sat two rows in front of you in Genetics.

It was one of those giant lectures- the kind you still had to sit through even though you were a junior because apparently Biology majors didn’t get anything other than three hundred-person classes- and you should have known he would probably be in one of your lectures, but it really wasn’t fair, you really should have gotten a free pass, just the once have the luck turn in your favor.

You pretended not to study the back of his head all class. His shoulders stiffened as the professor mentioned mutations; foot tapping harder against the seats; pencil flipping rapidly through his fingertips.

When class let out, you didn’t notice. Just sat, staring, as Peter started putting his things into his backpack. A glance at your notebook indicated you hadn’t been writing anything for the past ten minutes.

Peter exited the with the sea of students, and you wondered if he had seen you. If he sat in the same spot every class because he knew it was exactly two rows in front of yours. A large drawing of a spider occupied most of the page in your notebook. You crumped it up and threw it away.

 

ii.

You found his web shooters.

You still had them- half full with web fluid. In your hands they weighed everything and nothing all at once; cold and metallic and unfeeling in your palms. In your mind, you saw Peter making pizza dough in your kitchen, eyes surprised when you had mentioned his naked wrists. You had forgotten.

When you were sure Gwen wasn’t around, you shot a web from across the room, so your backpack stuck against the wall.

Your aim wasn’t half-bad.

 

iii.

There were reports of Spider-Man at a house party on campus.

You forced Gwen out of the apartment because she knew the owner of the house, and you stumbled down the streets until you saw him standing on someone’s porch steps; mask pushed up, so he could down an entire bottle of vodka in the center of a crowd. With the hand not holding the bottle, he was twirling a finger in a circle, a ‘cheer me on,’ sort of gesture. The crowd responding in kind; hands grasping towards him, phones up and recording.

Gwen stared, but it was with a sort of awed amazement. “That…that can’t be straight vodka. That should kill him.”

You were frozen. This was a bad idea, bad idea.

But Gwen was laughing her way up the steps now, pulling you along beside her. A bunch of fratty looking dudes were clapping Spider-Man on the shoulder, chortling in drunken laughter, which was absurd, because Peter Parker would _never_ be caught dead laughing over a cup of jungle juice with a bunch of frat bros, but here they were, and Gwen was pushing her way closer, eyes studying Peter hard.

She shoved a few of the beefcakes aside, tossing blonde hair over a shoulder. “Excuse me, as the soberest one here and as someone on their way to becoming a registered nurse, I think I should be assessing this situation. Mr. Spider-Man, sir, love your work, love your content, really, but speaking of content, are you aware that the alcohol content in the amount of liquid you just consumed is enough to kill you ten times over?”

He turned towards you both slowly, and you still couldn’t believe this, because Spider-Man was _anything_ but a party trick, this was absurd, really, you couldn’t even comprehend-

And then he said, slurred, with a tipsy sort of smile, “Y/N?”

Which was the rudest thing, because you knew one bottle of vodka was nowhere close to what it took to get Peter Parker drunk.

 

iv.

Later, the next morning, Gwen stood in your bedroom door with suspicious eyes. “How did Spider-Man know your name?”

 

v.

You were playing Mario Kart with Blake (beating Blake at Mario Kart, actually, for once) when he called you.

You watched Blake’s lips press into a straight line as you paused.

“Hello?”

The line was silent for a long time.

“Peter?”

You could hear his breath, rapid and unsteady, into the receiver. “Could you…could you come over?” A pause, some shifting. “Please? Right now?”

“Tell me where you are.” Your keys and wallet were already in your hands. Blake watched you go. He said nothing. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy saturday, lovelies! i hope you enjoyed this chapter- i felt so inspired this week to write (mostly due to all the lovely ppl who left kudos and commented; thank you, i love all y'all dearly) :) 
> 
> hmm, okay, let's see, future chapters will def be getting into the deaths of y/n's parents, more resolution (or not??) regarding all the shit that was brought up in this chapter, deffo some more gwen moments, and a possible ned leeds appearance (?????) who knows, we'll have to see.
> 
> additionally! if you would like to follow along with my writing playlist for this fic, you can find that here! boom: https://open.spotify.com/user/ponytails22/playlist/3LFjGQrhBTBbL4FfT6aGP3?si=H7m3G1_TR4CzOT3ZbwKllg
> 
> and that's all for this saturday- let me know all your thoughts in the comments below, and i will see you next week!


	8. precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so close and yet so far

His apartment door was unlocked as you pushed your way inside. It was a cramped studio; kitchen, couch, and bed all tangled together next to a small bathroom. You found Peter in there, wedged in the tiny space between toilet and shower. He was in the suit. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he was heaving.

“Peter? What’s wrong?” You were by his side in an instant, hands on his shoulders, eyes scanning his body. “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?”

He shook his head. You reached over to pull the mask off his face, and he let you; head hanging limply as you did so. HIs eyes were red and bleary, but not unfocused. There was no blood, at least none you could see, but he was moaning, gagging. His face was a sickly pale. and he heaved; leaning forward and retching.

 “Here, here.” You were pulling him upward, guiding him so he was positioned over the toilet. He white-knuckled the sides of the porcelain, head hanging low over the opening, and he retched. He threw up nothing but bile. There was a broken sob.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” You guided him back down towards his spot between the toilet and the shower. “It’s alright.” A hand reached up and caught your own, holding on before you could pull away. Spider-Man’s iridescent eyes stared up at you from where the mask was clenched in your opposite fist. Peter’s head dropped back down towards his knees, fingers tightening around yours. Hard.

“Careful,” you whispered, and his grip loosened.

“Sorry.” His voice was even quieter than your own, hiccupping through sobs. “I forget.”

“I know.” You squeezed his fingers back as hard as you could, and a tiny smile played along the corners of his lips. “There. Now I got you back.”

He laughed, but it was more of a sob, and he pressed his mouth against his knees. His eyes closed, tight. “God. This was supposed to stop. I was supposed to be over this.”

“Peter.” You reached out to rub a hand along his knee. “Is there such a thing as getting ‘over this?’”

His face screwed up, and there were tears puddled in his eyes as he looked at you. “That’s not very comforting to hear.”

“I know.”

He closed his eyes, clenching his face up tight as another sob built in his chest. Fingers twitched around your own, but he didn’t squeeze again. He wiped his eyes along his knees. He looked so small here, squished between a toilet and a shower wall.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of the suit. It’s not doing you any good to sit here trapped in it.” You tugged gently on his hand. For a moment, you thought he would refuse. But then he was pushing up into a shakily standing position; hand gripping the bathroom counter for support.

While standing, he no longer looked small. Instead he towered over you; a solid couple of inches gained since high school. Bulky shoulders, slender legs- the result of a life spent swinging and not walking. His face was still soft though, still so Peter. His jaw may have filled out a little more, but his curls still hung endearingly down towards his eyebrows. His lips were still full and soft as he regarded you. Fingers still intertwined.

“Here.” You pulled him towards his bed, and he plopped down amongst the pillows. You hunted around in his comforter until you found a tattered teddy bear, one of whose eyes was missing. You pressed him into Peter’s hands. “Mr. Bear at your service.”

He rolled his eyes, but his fingers tightened around the bear all the same. You made your way towards his dresser, rooting through his belongings until you found a pair of sweatpants, which you tossed towards him. Your hands paused while digging through sweatshirts, though, and you lifted up a familiar hoodie. “Peter Benjamin Parker. I have been looking for this sweatshirt for years.” You turned to look at him- Spider-Man suit still on, teddy bear in hand, sweatpants draped over lap.

His cheeks pinked, and his smile was unabashed as he looked at you. “It’s a really comfy sweatshirt.”

You chucked it at his head, and though you knew he could have easily grabbed it out of the air, he let it hit the side of his face. “Yeah. Fine. Of course. ‘Yes, you can wear my sweatshirt, Peter. Sure, yes, please keep it for a few years, why don’t you?’” His face was still turned up in the beginning of a smile, and you rolled your eyes, throwing hands up in the air. “You aren’t even sorry about it, are you? You absolute bastard! Fine, whatever, keep it then. You change into _my_ clothes, and I’ll get you food.”

He snorted at this statement, turning away from you as he pulled the suit off his shoulders. He was still trembling slightly. You kept talking.

“Listen, mister. I will concede- no, I am not an incredible chef. But you’re not getting gourmet cooking tonight in repayment for sweatshirt stealing.” You crossed to his fridge, peering inside. There was a collection of chicken, some slices of American cheese, a half-gallon of milk, and a few yogurts. “Heavy on the dairy, Parker. That contributes to acne, you know.”

“That’s a myth.” His voice was muffled by the sweatshirt pulling over his shoulders.

“Mmmkay.” You poked around in his cabinets, pulling out some cereal and a couple bowls. You poured the cereal, and then, after checking the milk was still good (which of course it was, dammit, you were the only one with spoilt milk), poured some into one of the bowls. You made sure Peter’s was swimming. You ate your cereal dry. “Here.” You set down the bowls and spoons on the coffee table as Peter pulled on sweatpants over boxers. “Coco Puffs, coming right up.”

He hopped on the couch next to you, pulling the bowl into his lap and shoveling cereal into his mouth. He looked up at you with a grin as milk dribbled off his lips and onto his chin. “This reminds me of when we were babies and ate Coco Puffs after school every day.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching over and wiping milk off his chin. “Well, I sure hope a nineteen-year-old would have more sense than to dribble milk all over everywhere while he eats his cereal.”

He smiled, Coco Puffs in his teeth, and you laughed despite yourself, reaching over and pulling the strings on the hoodie until it swallowed his face whole. He reached up with the spoon, positioning his mouth through the hole so he could still eat. “This is fine.”

“Good,” you told him, giggling. “You have to stay like that, then.”

You watched his mouth shape into a grin. “I will. I like it in here. It’s quiet and soft.”

You patted his shoulder, enjoying how it felt beneath your palms, wrapped in fabric. He tilted his head over, pressing a hooded cheek into the back of your palm, and you planted a kiss on the top of his head instinctively.

You felt him freeze under your lips, so it was you who moved next, nervous but certain, turning sideways so you were facing him, pulling his head towards your chest, crushing him against you and squeezing as hard as you could. He was still for another moment. Then he moved slowly, placing the bowl and spoon on the coffee table and wrapping his arms around you, sinking into your touch. His head tucked below your chin, and he trembled, your collarbone wet with tears.

You closed your eyes and kissed his hoodied forehead again, trying to squeeze him tighter, trying to save him from it all. Because you would. If you could. You would.

You sat like that for a long time. Long enough that your foot went numb, and Peter stopped crying, and you almost wondered if he had fallen asleep. You shifted back against a couch cushion, pulling him down so he was lying on top of you, head still on chest, his body in-between your legs. His eyes were closed, but his hand reached up to find your own; intertwining fingers. He sighed. With a free hand you played with a few curls that were peeking through the hood.

“You should sleep,” you told him. “I know you’re tired.”

His eyes blinked open to look at you. “I can’t sleep.”

“Let’s try.”

He made a humming noise, eyes drifting back shut. His thumb shifted, rubbing up and down the side of your hand. You mirrored the action, finger finding the place where his web shooters would reside had you not still had them. The skin was soft, right at the base of his hand, baby skin that hadn’t been touched.

His eyes found yours blearily, and you regretted disturbing him. “Do you still have them? Did you remember?”

“Yeah,” you told him, voice quiet. Like he was still sleeping beneath you. “Do you want them back?”

He took a deep breath in, through his nose, out his mouth. “No. It’s okay. You can keep them.”

“Okay.” Your fingers found his wayward curls again. You were curious, and yet you didn’t want to pry. Didn’t want to trigger him. Wanted him to rest.

His face was turned away from you, eyes still open, and frowning. His fingers found a stray string on your jeans, pulling and tugging on it until it broke free. He spoke slowly, haltingly. “I made new web shooters. After I realized you had my other ones.” His eyes found the suit, draped over his bed; the skin of a spider. “They don’t work well. They’re faulty. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I screwed something up. That’s why I was all bloody when you found me a few weeks ago. They didn’t work.”

You didn’t want to ask, you didn’t want to ask, but you _had_ to, because not asking, not talking had been what got you into this whole mess in the first place. “Is that what happened tonight?” He hadn’t said he was hurt, but he could have healed before you arrived. “Your web shooters screwed up?”

He chuffed a laugh. “Something like that.”

That wouldn’t do as an answer. But you couldn’t ask, you needed to lead up, you couldn’t just dump these things on him. “So, what was it then? Someone dressed up from Comic-Con made a ray gun that actually worked?”

He froze into stillness under your hands.

“A bank robbery? That’s a classic.”

He shook his head.

“Was it-”

He shook his head harder. “Bug.”

“What?”

He tilted his chin, so he was looking up at your face. There were tears in his eyes, and his bottom lip was trembling. “I haven’t been Spider-Man since the war.”

Your hand paused where it was twisting his curl. “What.”

His eyes closed, and he sucked in a shaking breath. “I haven’t been Spider-Man since the war. I haven’t gone out and saved anyone. I haven’t stopped any bank robberies.”

“But, that doesn’t make sense.” Your mind was reeling. “I saw you…I helped you when you were injured. You just said you were all bloody a month ago because your web shooters messed up.”

He laughed, an ashamed thing. “I’ve _worn_ the suit. I’ve worn it three times exactly. Once was at a party, when I was being stupid and hurt. Once, I put it on, not because I was going out to save people again or anything, but because I wanted to go see you, and I was nervous.” His face pinked. “I wanted to talk to KAREN. But I wasn’t watching where I was going, and when I tried to use my web shooter, it didn’t work. I did fall off a train. But I wasn’t trailing a bad guy.”

“But…” Your mind was reeling. “What about tonight?”

His lips pressed together into a sad sort of smile. “Tonight, I was trying to go back out again. Be a good person. I don’t know, make up for all my sins or something.” His eyes found yours. “I didn’t even make it out the door.”

“Oh, Peter.” You held him closer.

His voice was small, shaking. “I don’t know why I can’t do it. I don’t know why I can’t go out again. It’s been years. _Years._ ”

“It’s okay.” Your hands traced patterns up his shoulders, down his back.

“If I…” He stared off into space, shaking his head. “If I’m not out there, people get hurt. It’s selfish.”

“No, it’s not.”

His eyes were full of tears as he looked at you, whispering, “ _Yes_ , it is _._ ”

You rubbed his hoodied head and closed your eyes, wishing there was something, anything, you could say to him. “Peter-bug, you are quite possibly the most good person I have ever met in my life. But you can’t put this all on your shoulders. You can’t carry the burden of everything all the time.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “Look what it does to you.”

He hiccupped into your collarbone. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no no no no no. It’s not about sorry. It’s about…” You bit your lip, thinking hard. “It’s about realizing what’s best for you is also what’s best for those people you want so desperately to save. Peter, you have to take care of yourself first. You haven’t been doing that. You have to figure out your own shit before you try figuring out someone else’s. If there’s anything I’ve learned over these three  _shit_ years, it’s that much.”

He was quiet, sniffling.

“Do you…would you ever want to talk to someone about all this?” You weren’t even sure how to broach the subject. Years ago, mentions of a therapist would have gotten you the cold shoulder. “I’m sure if you asked Stark-”

He pulled away slightly, cutting a hand through the air. “I’m not asking Tony for anything. Besides,” he tugged on string of his sweatshirt, so it scrunched unevenly to the left of his face, “I’ve tried all that before. It didn’t help.”

“Mmm.”

His fingers played with yours, still intertwined. “It helps when I talk to you.” His voice was quiet, and his eyes wouldn’t meet yours as he said it.

“Yeah?” You squeezed his fingers back, smiling. “I like it too. It’s much better than the alternative.”

His face was distant, though. “I’m not sure your boyfriend thinks so.”

“Well, luckily he’s not in charge of everything I say and do.”

He was quiet. Waiting.

You pulled in a breath. You owed him this much. You owed him this much. “I’m sorry. For what he told you. What I said. I’m sorry I hurt you. That I couldn’t say anything.”

His eyes focused on your fingers. “Did you mean it?” His voice dropped even lower. “The villain part?”

You measured your next words carefully. “I said that when I was hurt. And angry.”

“But you meant it.”

“Yes.” It was the truth. You owed him that much.

He nodded to himself. When he looked back up at you, fingers still tangled in your own, brown eyes soft, and curls peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, and he smelled like soft-baked bread and fresh-picked flowers and Saturday morning comics, and peterpeterpeter, and when he smoothed a hand over to rub your knee it was like you had never been apart, because he was a part of you, had been a part of you missing for eons, and you had forgotten you fit together this impossibly well, and you were leaning towards him, his lips were all you could see, and you just wanted to consume him in the way only lovers could know, consume him so you would speak with the same tongue, share the same lips again, whisper secrets in the dark only the other would understand.

He turned, and your lips pressed against his cheek instead of his mouth.

Your face flushed, and you felt the urge to pull away in shame, because what were you doing, you had a boyfriend, you had a boyfriend whom you loved, whom you had left alone in your apartment with a Wii controller in his hands, and because Peter knew you had a boyfriend, and he had pushed your head to the side, chosen cheek over lips. Peter’s hands held you more tightly towards him.

“It’s okay,” he said, because he knew. Of course, he knew. “We’re just figuring this out.”

“We’re fucking it up,” you whispered, fighting the urge to cry, because it was Peter’s night, it was his night to cry goddammit.

He chuckled. “We’re royally fucking it up.”

You breathed out hard, your fingers clenching into a fist, and he must have sensed the movement because he pulled back, so you were face to face. His fingers gently unclenched each one of your own from your fist.

“Hey.” He was so so tender. He looked at you softly. “We may be royally, _royally_ fucking it up, but at least we’re fucking it up together. And that’s better than apart, right?”

You nodded.

His fingers traced over each of your knuckles. He smiled the soft beginnings of a smile. “It’s better for me this way too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh they almost kissed dammit they were so close and yet still so far...
> 
> this chapter really got away from me- it was originally intended to be several scenes but then this one was just so soft and important it kept going and going. i think this may be one of my favs to write so far. 
> 
> anyway, we're gonna start getting into the nitty gritty of relationships (the implications of emotional cheating???), the unsolved murders of the readers parents, and a ned leeds cameo dammit bc he was supposed to make an appearance this chapter but didn't.
> 
> i really hope you enjoyed, and if you feel so inclined pls leave a review letting me know what you think- every single one makes my day. either way, i love you all dearly, and pls have an amazing week! <3


	9. pumpkin eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blake + accidents + wise ned leeds is wise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone for 1000+ hits and 100+ kudos! i cannot express how happy writing this fic makes me, and how even HAPPIER all of you guys make me <3 lots of love

In the dead of night, he whispers it.

So quiet it doesn’t wake you up at first, and instead you blink into the darkness of bed and boy and wonder what disturbed you at this godforsaken hour of 1:42 a.m.

And then Blake repeats it, turning so that he’s facing you in bed: “Are you cheating on me?”

“What?” Your stomach rolls, trying to process too many things on a brain that’s nowhere near awake.

“It’s okay if you are.” His hand reaches over, ghosting across your shoulder, down your arm. “I just want to know.”

“I’m not cheating on you.” The words have all the sincerity and falsity of things whispered at 1:42 in the morning.

“Okay.” He’s quiet then.

You are too.

 

***

 

The next morning you both rub tired eyes over mugs of coffee. Blake dumps more creamer in his than usual, and you raise an eyebrow.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he says, by way of explanation.

“And having a dairy-filled coffee pertains to that, how?”

He smiles down at the coffee, watching milk swirl into drink. “It makes me happy. And it feels indulgent.”

He doesn’t mention what he said last night. Neither do you.

 

***

 

You’re sitting together on the couch pretending to do homework when Peter texts.

You watch Blake’s eyes flicker over towards your phone, then back down to his reading. Your fingers hover over the screen. “Peter and I were going to go to Whisk and do some research on my parents.”

He shifts slightly on the couch. “Okay.”

“Do you want to come?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p.’

“Okay.” You text Peter back. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

“The researching the parents or the canoodling with your ex?”

Your hand clenches into a fist around the phone. “Blake.”

He shrugs. “You already know how I feel.”

“Okay.”

You leave.

 

***

 

Peter was wearing a different sweatshirt than the one he had stolen from you. It was one you didn’t recognize- a blue hoodie with a local sports team you didn’t know. A small part of you ached to see him in your clothes again.

His face lit up in a smile as you walked into the shop, and the knot of tension that had squeezed its way through your muscles from your earlier fight with Blake dissolved away. Peter Parker’s smile was one to launch one thousand and one ships. The kind of smile that was given away freely and generously, and yet somehow each time felt special and tender- like it was meant just for you.

He pushed a mug of something steaming towards you. “I got you tea.”

It was English Breakfast. Black. He remembered. “Thank you.”

His smile melted into something much more tender and fragile, and how could you have ever left this boy, this boy who held every emotion right on his sleeve, who would hold the earth for you without hesitation, who could capture the intricacies of love in a smile and a cup of English Breakfast.

He was grimacing adorably at your mug. “How do you drink that? It’s like leaf…water. Basically. It’s so bitter.”

“Exactly.” You looked over to what he had beside him- a cold drink despite the frigid weather still biting outside. “And what are you drinking? Sugary sugar deluxe?”

He shrugged, playing with the straw between his lips. “Fast metabolism.”

“If you say so.” You reached down and pulled your laptop out of your backpack, and he mirrored your action, producing a manila folder. “So, whatcha got?” You tried not to sound too eager, too nervous, too obsessive. Your leg started jiggling, up and down. There was a ringing in your ears that wouldn’t go away.

He opened the file. The details of your parents’ murder laid out on the table. Cut and dry. The ringing got louder.

“Well, I did think it was weird the police gave up solving the thing so early. All those files I read suggested foul play.” His voice was quiet, and yet it was like he was yelling directly into your eardrums.

“Foul play,” you repeated. Your jiggling leg knocked the table hard enough that your mug tipped right off the side. Peter’s hand was there before you could blink. The mug was saved. “They thought it was poison.” Your fist clenched hard by your side.

Peter reached a hand across the table to squeeze yours. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“I didn’t even get to tell them goodbye.” And there it was again, the coolness in your voice. Like you were detached from the whole situation, floating somewhere miles away. Blake’s voice: _Did you even care about them?_ “I don’t even remember if I hugged them before I saw them last.” The ringing was spinning now, and the coffee shop was much too small, even though you weren’t freaking out, your pulse wasn’t racing, your hands weren’t sweating. All you were doing was clenching and unclenching your fist.

Peter pushed back from the table, your hand still in his. “Let’s go. We can walk.”

You followed him numbly, swinging your backpack around your shoulders and heading out onto the New York streets. He moved with a kind of learned ease, leading you as though there was somewhere you were headed. He was a boy practiced in going nowhere.

He played with your fingers. “Tell me more about your parents.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

His voice was gentle. “Yes, you do.”

Your breath spluttered between your lips. “I feel…wrong. Like I should be more devastated about all this. Like I should care more.”

“And you don’t?”

You focused hard on the sidewalk cracks. “I feel nothing. Numb, maybe. You know how it was. They were good parents. I was their kid. And we didn’t have anything special. Like, part ways when I’m eighteen and send each other Christmas cards sort of deal. But I feel like should care more.”

His voice was soft. “I think you do care.”

“Blake doesn’t think so.” The words were out before you could stop them, but Peter didn’t miss a beat, still squinting upwards at the sky scrapers.

His words were measured. “If there’s anything I’ve learned about losing people, it’s that you can’t believe two shits about how anyone else tells you should feel.”

“I just want to find who did this. Stop it…stop them.”

His voice was still soft, but insistent. “We will. We’ll find them.”

“Okay.” There was a sort of sticky unease trickling through your belly. “Do you think I’m a bad person? For not caring more?”

He frowned hard. “No.” He tugged on your hand. “Of course not.”

“I feel nothing, Peter.” The words were just whispered, and you had both stopped, standing just inside the mouth of an alley. Your first clenched in and out by your side.

His hands found the fist, concentrating on straightening fingers back out, one by one. “You feel everything,” he said, carefully. “And that’s why it’s so hard.”

You reached for him, and he pulled you into his arms, squeezing you tight against his chest. You didn’t cry, because you still hadn’t cried for your parents. Maybe you never would. Maybe this was your grief- their vengeance. Your way of sobbing by their gravestones. You weren’t sure. But Peter’s hands as they stroked your hair- they were sure. Peter’s heart, beating steadily against your ear- that was sure. Peter standing in this alleyway with you, and you knowing he wouldn’t leave until you told him you were ready to go. That was sure.

Peter’s arms tensed around you.

“What?”

He was frowning. “It could be-”

WHAM-

Something slammed you from behind. You tumbled out of Peter’s grasp. Pain sliced through your hand, and then the back of your neck, your head.

Peter’s face, eyes wide. A dark coated body, hands on Peter.

The pavement was cold against your back. Residual rainwater seeped against your jeans.

Peter in hand to hand. He didn’t have his web shooters. Your fault, your fault. But, web shooters or not, Peter should have easily bested anyone in combat. Unless.

Peter yelling out. You tried to press your hands into the concrete, to sit up, to help him, but you were trapped here, and your wrist smarted as you tried to find purchase.

But as suddenly as the combat started it was over, and the figure fled. There was a moment where Peter turned, muscles tensing, an arm reaching up to shoot a web to go swinging off. But that was only a moment. And then he was on his knees by your side, his eyes wild and worried.

“What happened? What hurts?”

Your eyes raked over him, scared you would find him bleeding out. “Did they get you?”

He pressed a hand to the back of his head. “He stuck me with something. A needle in the back of the neck.”

You tried to steady your breathing. There were a multitude of reasons someone would want to inject Peter with things. “How do you feel? What do you think was in the needle?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I feel alright though. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“I’m fine.”

He scanned the entrance to the alleyway. “I want to get out of here.”

Your heartrate rose. “No police, right? We’re still not doing the police?”

He nodded, and with the hard glint of his jaw you were reminded of Spider-Man the vigilante. Spider-Man, still on the run from the Accords. “No police. Can you walk?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You both looked over to your hand, rapidly swelling red.

“Let’s just get out of here.” He helped you to your feet. He was the opposite of trembling and nervous- extra calm, extra still, extra contemplative. You could tell he was shaken. A hand ran up and down your arm absentmindedly as he scanned the alley.

“How far is your apartment?” he asked. “I’m a good five subway stops away, and I’m not really in the mood to use public transportation.”

“Mine’s the same,” you said, your senses beginning to return to you. You weren’t scared. You weren’t. But your hand was _throbbing_ , and you wanted out of this alleyway. As soon as possible.

Peter sighed, shakily. “I have an idea.”

 

***

 

The boy who opened the door glowed in the way people you love glow when you haven’t seen them in a while. The glow that fades away all their flaws; lets them exist in that manner of I haven’t seen you in a while and you look mostly the same, but there’s a little something different, a little _je ne sais pas_ , that ephemeral passing of time or something.

His smile faded only a little as he took in the scene before him: Peter at the door, you beside him with your arm trapped against your chest.

He said, “Oh.”

Peter, with a whisper, “Hey, Ned.”

Ned threw his arms around the other boy, and Peter stepped away from you to hug him back. There was a moment where you could just see Ned’s hands wrapped around Peter’s middle, holding tight. Peter’s shaking shoulders. When they pulled apart, Ned was holding Peter’s hands in his own. There were tears in Peter’s eyes.

“I knew you’d come back.” Ned’s voice was thick with emotion, but his eyes were bright as he smiled up at the other boy.

Peter laughed, reaching up a hand to wipe at his eyes. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

But Ned was shaking his head, pulling you both inside. “I don’t want to hear it. No apologies. Just this. Just the here and now. That’s all that’s important anyways.”

You loved Ned Leeds with all your heart.

If he was perturbed by either the sight of you or Peter or you and Peter, he said nothing. Peter tried to tell him about what happened (“Ned, we were attacked-”), but Ned just brushed him off (“I know. You have that look in your eyes.”) and sat you both down on the couch before crossing to his kitchen and pulling out a large bin. He pushed it toward Peter, and you wondered if both you and Ned had prepared such a large first aid kit for the same reasons. The same recurring nightmares of a boy arriving on your fire escape. Bleeding out. “What do you need? I’ve got some of everything in there.”

“It’s not for me,” Peter said when Ned came back over, and his eyes turned towards your wrist.

“That looks broken.” He was getting out gauze and antiseptic for Peter’s busted knuckles anyway. “I know you know that looks broken.”

“It’s not broken,” you insisted. “I can wiggle my fingers, look.” With a lot of effort, your index finger twitched. Peter grimaced by your side.

Ned’s frown deepened. “Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”

“The hospital will ask questions.”

Peter waved a hand. “We could make something up.”

“We can call Gwen. She knows first aid. She can look at it. She’s going to become a nurse.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think ‘going to become a nurse’ counts as ‘qualified health professional.’”

“Please. Peter.” You looked at him and tried to communicate with your eyes all that you were failing to say aloud. That you couldn’t leave. That you wanted to stay here on the couch between him and Ned. That for some reason you had just been attacked in an alley. “You’re hurt too.”

He brushed this comment away with a wave of his hand, but his voice was low and quiet as he said, “I’m healing.”

You both turned to Ned- the deciding vote. The boy was quiet for a long time before letting out a long sigh. “Call your friend. It’s safer for everyone if we stay here.”

You found Gwen’s number in your phone with shaking fingers, and she picked up after only one ring. “Hey, what’s up? Also, when are you coming back? Blake’s moping around like a kicked puppy.”

“Can you come meet me?”

“Yeah.” She must have sensed something off in your voice. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s kinda a long story,” you hedged, watching Ned clean blood off Peter’s forehead.

“Did Peter do something?” Gwen’s voice was quiet, defensive. “Do I need to drop-kick his ass?”

You laughed a shaky laugh. “Not quite.” There was a long silence where you realized she was still waiting for you to speak. “We got attacked.”

There was a beat. “What?”

“I’m not…I’m not really sure what happened exactly. Some, some guy came out of nowhere and-”

“Did you call the police? Do you need me to call the police? I’m coming to you right now, where are you? Should I call 911? Also, why didn’t you lead with the part where you were attacked?”

You sighed. “Because I had a feeling this was how you were going to react. Listen, everything’s fine, you don’t need to call the police, we’re at a friend’s apartment now. We just got a little beat up.”

You heard the sound of a car turning on. “We’re on our way. Text me the address. No, text Blake the address, stay on the line with me.”

You watched as Peter dropped his face into his hands. “Gwen, I can’t. I have to go now, okay? I’ll see you in a few.”

“You better have a good reason we aren’t meeting at the hospital.” The line clicked off.

You set a hand on Peter’s shoulder, focusing for a few minutes on just rubbing the knots out, one by one. You were back in the alley; pushed to the ground, Peter fighting, winning, losing, without his web shooters. “That was…scary.”

He nodded, trembling. “He was strong.”

Ned paused from where he was cleaning Peter’s knuckles. “Stronger than you?”

Peter shook his head as in disbelief. “I don’t know stronger, necessarily. He had me by surprise. Just as strong as me, though. At least. It was just-”

The door burst open and Gwen strode in, eyes ablaze, Blake following behind. His eyes found you, worry pinching his features. “Are you okay?”

Gwen cross so she could stand next to you, running a hand over your hair, and Peter moved so Blake could squeeze in as a fourth person on the couch. His hands found your shoulder, down to your wrist.

You winced, “Careful.”

He frowned, rotating it gently in his hands. His eyes were accusatorily on Peter, though, when he asked, “What happened?”

If Peter felt the scrutiny in Blake’s gaze, he didn’t flinch, but you started the story just in case. “We were walking when someone knocked me to the ground. Peter pulled him off of me, and they fought for a little while.” You heart thundered in your chest, and you flinched as Blake pressed on a knuckle.

“He stuck me with something,” Peter said. Gwen’s started a bit from where she was pressing at lump on your forehead, eyes narrowing towards Peter. “He had a needle in his hand, and he stuck me with it, and then he ran off.”

“Where did he get you?” Gwen was shifting, leaning over Peter.

He motioned vaguely towards his neck. “I don’t know, back here somewhere? I don’t think it did anything, though. I haven’t felt anything different.”

Gwen was still frowning, tilting his head forward with a hand so she could see the nape of his neck. She pressed on a few spots. “Does that hurt?”

He shook his head. “Should it?”

Her frown deepened. “No, I just…I don’t see anything at all. Which isn’t a bad thing- it’s probably a good thing- it’s just weird. Like, there’s not even a mark like you were stuck.”

“Maybe there wasn’t anything in the needle anyway. Maybe that’s why I feel okay.”

She sat down in an easy chair, still frowning. “Mmmhm, or he injected you with something slow acting and lethal and you’re gonna die. Someone fucking remind me again why we’re in this apartment and not a police station. Or, better yet, a hospital?” Her eyes were boring into yours.

“I don’t want to go to the police,” you said, and you made your voice tremble, pulled up some tears for effect, because you felt like an absolute loser for lying to your friends, but you would lie for Peter Benjamin Parker until the day you died. And there would be no chance you’d let him anywhere near the police, not anywhere near anyone who could tie up the loose strings that connected Peter Parker with Spider-Man. “I just want to forget this ever happened.”

Blake pulled you closer to his side, wiping a tear from your cheek. You were an awful, awful terrible person. “Babe, it’s okay.”

You felt Ned’s eyes on your own. “I just really don’t want to think about this anymore, okay? I just want to move on and pretend nothing happened. I don’t want to be questioned and I don’t want to be poked and prodded. I just want to move on.”

Blake squeezed your knee. “We won’t go then. Whatever you want.”

Ned was still frowning, eyes on Peter. “You said a needle?”

Peter nodded, scraping the last of the blood from his knuckles. “Yeah. You know anything about that?”

Ned’s cheeks pinked. “I don’t know much, but I’ve been keeping track of crime around here. Tabs on…on criminals.”

There was a silent, unspoken memory shared between the three of you. Of you and Ned and MJ, up for hours in Ned’s bedroom; the profiles of every villain who’d ever villained spread across his floor. A comfort in knowing what Peter was facing. A reminder of the psychopaths he was up against.

Ned drew a long breath before continuing. “There’s a man- he calls himself the Pharmacist. He sounds like what you’ve described: older, but thought to be possibly…” he swallowed, eyes flickering to Peter,” enhanced. He’s been known to poison his victims, though he hasn’t been around too long, hasn’t been connected to too many deaths. Been laying low. Not attracting attention. The needles, that’s what made me think of him.”

You whispered words that felt heavy in your mouth, “My parents were poisoned.”

But no one had heard you, and instead Gwen was throwing arms up into the air. “Okay, so we know this guy poisons people, and yet we’re still cool with not getting Peter checked out?”

“I’m fine,” he said quietly, and Gwen just squinted at him harder. “I…I can feel it. The poison would have done something by now.”

“We know that?” Gwen’s eyes were finding yours, but you trusted Peter. He knew his healing factor. You trusted it would flush any poison out of his system, if there had been any in the first place.

He reached over Ned on the couch to rub a hand over her knee. “Gwen, I appreciate it, but I think I’m okay. Really.”

She sat back, arms crossed over her chest. “I’ve got my eyes on you, Parker. Like, seriously. The second you start feeling bad, you tell me.”

 “My parents were poisoned,” you said again, louder this time, and you felt Blake tense beside you.

“Let’s not do this right now.”

“Blake.” You looked at him, willing him to see how much this meant to you, how _crucial_ this information was. “Please.”

“Y/N, you were just _attacked_ , your wrist is strained-”

“Blake, you don’t realize, what-”

“Won’t you just listen to me for one goddamn minute of your life?” Blake’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it quieted the entire room. “It doesn’t fucking matter if he killed your parents. What matters is if you are okay. What matters is if we could go to the police and stop this from happening in the future, to other people.”

“I told you I don’t want to go to the police.” Your voice was quiet, embarrassed. Peter was purposefully not looking at you. “And you said it was okay.”

“And what about you?” Blake followed your gaze, directing his attention to Peter. “You’re okay with all this? With people like her getting hurt again because you won’t say anything about it?”

“Don’t bring Peter into this.” Your voice was steady, even, but your fist clenched by your side.

Blake sat back, snorting. “Oh, that’s right. Get defensive.”

“Excuse me?”

He stood, hands trembling. “You’re a girl of inaction until it suits you the most. You won’t deal with things in the moment, but you love digging up past bones. It’s masochistic. You need to let things go. Let things _die.”_

You stood up to match, but he was taller and more impressive than you and it made your blood boil. “Is that really what you think?”

“You heard what I said,” he spat. “Now, why don’t you call me when he runs off and hurts your feelings again, and you can come crying to me like you always do, and I’ll love you better like I always do, and then you can spit in my face again and leave me.”

You were silent.

He grabbed his keys. He was gone.

The room was frozen. You standing. Gwen on the easy chair. Peter and Ned on the couch.

Gwen stood mechanically. She frowned towards you. “You should go after him.”

You turned to her, eyes pleading. “Can you…?”

She sighed, nodding, but she was already gathering her things. “You should go after him. But I’ll see you at home.”

You sat back down hard on the couch in-between Ned and Peter. Ned reached over and rubbed your shoulder. You scrubbed hands along your eyes.

“Why is this so fucking complicated?”

Peter picked up a remote, “Ned, you got Netflix?”

Ned grabbed a blanket from the coffee table and tucked it around your shoulders. “Yeah, of course I’ve got Netflix. What do you want to watch?”

You closed your eyes, settling into Ned’s shoulder as he put his arm around you. “Something trashy. Please.”

Within thirty minutes you were all dozing; Peter’s head had fallen onto your shoulder and his mouth was open, snoring, and if you squinted you could pretend you were back in high school, when you fit together on a three-person couch and you hadn’t had to work so hard just to keep things from bursting apart at the seams.

Ned was smiling at Peter’s snores. “I missed you guys.”

You returned the smile. “I missed you too. Sorry for not keeping in better touch. We don’t have much excuses; going to the same college.”

He shrugged slightly. “Maybe we needed some time apart. It doesn’t much matter now. We’re back.” His gaze slipped over to Peter, and his smile softened a little. His voice dropped even quieter. “How is he?”

Despite yourself, you reached over to touch a curl tickling the pink of Peter’s eyelid. “He’s…better.”

Ned smiled a small sort of secret smile. “You know, when you two walked in here, I have to admit, I thought…”

Your head whipped back over towards him.

He smiled, unapologetically. “It seemed like it used to.” He paused. “It felt like it used to before.”

You nodded a hesitant nod. “We’re…we’re getting there.”

“But you have a boyfriend.”

You spluttered. “That’s…that’s not what I meant. I meant we’re getting back to where we were before. Like, fixing the past.”

He shrugged. “There’s no fixing the past.”

“Ned.”

“What?” he looked incredulous. “There isn’t. There’s only now; it’s the truth.”

You pursed your lips. “Well, regardless, we’re getting there.”

“Hmmm.” You were both silent for a moment before he added, “He called me a lot. When he was in California. It was…hard for him.”

“He shouldn’t have gone.”

Ned shrugged. “But he did. And now he’s here. And now we’re here.”

Peter snored gently against your shoulder. His breath puffed against the skin of your collarbone. He was here. And you were here. And that was okay.

 

***

 

In the dead of night, he whispers it.

Rolls over, presses a kiss to your shoulder, the night full of confusion and cologne and Blake. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

You pretend to be asleep.

The night stays silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bam! just like that! ned leeds is officially here.
> 
> so, what are your thoughts on blake? i've had a few ppl say they're sorry for him, and while i agree that to some extent he is getting the raw end of some hard emotional cheating (bc we're in agreement that this is emotional cheating, right? or no?), he also can be sort of a dick? idk, what are y'alls thoughts? i try to make it complex on purpose, so hopefully that comes across.
> 
> hmmm lets see looking ahead we've got more blake drama naturally, as well as some angst bc who can't live without some angst, and we've got to get tony stark worked in here at some point as well so don't worry THAT'S gonna be angsty. oh and some perilous situations are coming up bc what's a fic without a few life or death moments, yeah?
> 
> as said above, THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading, and if you feel so inclined, let me know your thoughts! I love seeing what you think, and it really does make my day. either way though, i hope you enjoyed, and i'll see you next week <3


	10. blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some cuts are deeper than others

i.

_When you found him again, he was healing._

_You were finally allowed to see him, though he was still in bed. Propped up with a thousand and five different pillows. He was so pale. Translucent. Like he still wasn’t all the way back. You knew that feeling._

_Condensation from a sweating ice cream carton dripped into your palms. You stood, frozen, in the doorway. He was sleeping, face peaceful. Hands balled up in little fists on the covers. His lips were almost purple in the light. Forehead smooth. He looked like a little boy here. Science fair posters still pinned up on the wall. An Iron Man action figure on his desk. Blankets tucked up under his chin; like he had just gone to bed after a long day of homework, not after helping to eliminate the threat who had wiped out half the universe._

_You stepped into the room, waiting for him to twitch and wake up. He didn’t stir. You set the ice cream on his bedside table and sat down slowly on the bed. It dipped under your weight. Peter slept on. You straightened out your legs, squishing next to him on the twin-sized mattress. His eyes blinked open to lazily find yours._

_“I brought you ice cream,” you told him, whispered. “It’s chocolate chip cookie dough though. It was my decision, so I picked the flavor. Selfish.”_

_A smile twitched at the corner of his lips. He wasn’t awake enough to talk, but a hand flopped upwards, landing on your wrist. The message was clear enough._ Stay.

_“When we eat it,” you continued, reaching a hand up to trace fingers along his forehead, dipping his eyes back closed, “I refuse to use a bowl. We’ll just have two spoons and we’ll eat it straight out of the carton.”_

_“Mmm.” He was smiling, just slightly._

_Your fingers traced his bare shoulders. You could feel he was there again. Solid. Beneath you._

 

***

 

Saturday came, as it tends to do, and before you knew it Blake had left for work and you were rambling around the kitchen. There was a mug of coffee in your hands, but you weren’t sure if you wanted anything else. The beginnings of a throbbing headache suggested even the coffee wasn’t the best idea.

Gwen emerged from her room, hair done up in a bun, rubbing at her eyes behind glasses. She smiled gratefully as you passed a mug of coffee towards her, sliding into a barstool. You poured some cereal in a bowl on autopilot, sitting down next to her.

“You want some?”

She shook her head, wincing. “Too early for food. I’m not ready.”

“Mmkay.” You started shoveling cereal into your mouth, mindlessly scrolling on your phone, replying to messages. You sent a Snapchat to Blake, ignoring the odd twist in your stomach as you did so. “Are you doing anything today?”

“No. Are you?”

You flicked through twenty Instagram stories in less than ten seconds. “Peter’s coming over.”

“Oh.” She was watching you, face distant. Frowning. She looked back down at her coffee mug. There was a pause, in which you took a Buzzfeed quiz. Your spirit vegetable was celery. Eventually, “I see the way you look at him.”

You stiffened, and you accidentally clicked chips instead of ice cream while trying to determine which snack best suited your personality. “What?”

Gwen’s frown deepened. “Peter.”

Fingers bit into the flesh of your hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

You shook your head. You were lying.

Gwen passed her mug from hand to hand. _Clink, clink_ across the countertop. “When you’re around each other. It’s obvious. It’s like you’re his bodyguard or something. The way you move, so you’re next to him. The way you touch him. The way he looks at you.”

“Looks at me?”

The mug slid across the counter faster. _Clinkclink, clinkclink._ “Like he’s begging you for something.”

You shifted on your seat. “We’re just trying to figure this whole thing out.”

She shrugged. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. But you shouldn’t string Blake along for the ride.”

Something twisted harder in your stomach. “I don’t think Blake is the type to get strung along.”

“Isn’t he?”

Your fist clenched. “What is this about? You’re suddenly on Team Blake?”

She raised her eyebrows at you. “Who said there were teams? I’m just telling you what I’ve seen.”

You took a calming breath. “There isn’t anything to be nervous about. I’m dating Blake. I’m happy. I’m trying to mend a relationship with Peter. That’s all.”

Gwen shifted in her seat. “Look, I’m your best friend. If there are any teams, I’m on _your_ team.”

“What does that mean?”

She fixed you with a stare. “That whatever road you’re going down right now isn’t the right one. And you know that.”

You put the cereal bowl in the sink. It clattered against the stainless steel. “Blake and I are going through a hard time right now. But we’ll make it through. We’ve done it before.”

“And Peter?”

Your hand froze from scrubbing the bowl out. “What about Peter?”

“You love him.”

 

***

 

_In the middle of the night, he twisted away from you, moaning. There was a momentary struggle, throwing off blanket after blanket, before he was collapsing off the bed, on his knees, retching onto the wooden floor._

_You stumbled down beside him, hands on shoulders, rubbing his back. He moaned before heaving again, and you tried to find your voice, “It’s okay, it’s okay, P, you’re okay…” but he turned towards you and oh god that was blood all over his mouth and nose, blood and soot, and you were hyperventilating but he was waving a hand in your direction, trying to reassure you instead of the other way around and-_

_“’S okay.” His voice was thick, eyes hooded in exhaustion. “Happens sometimes…now. ‘S okay.”_

 

***

 

“Of course I love Peter,” you said, opening the dishwater and placing the bowl inside. “I’ve known him my entire life.”

Gwen made an irritated noise. The mug still shifted from hand to hand, _clink clink._  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

You closed the dishwasher. You breathed out a long sigh and tried to swallow back the ball of emotion trapped in your throat. “What do you want me to say, Gwen? I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what any of this is. What do you want me to tell you? That I’m going to stay with Blake even though I’m not sure if it feels right? That I’m going to call him right now and break up with him? That I’m going to fall back in love with Peter after all we’ve done to each other? That I’m going to let him go again, push him back away? What do you want?”

 _Clink- CRASH._ The mug missed her palm, shattering against the concrete of the floor. Pieces flew everywhere, one flying up to clip Gwen in the cheek. A drop of blood beaded under her eye. There were several beats of silence. Then, slowly, “I want you to be happy. I feel like you haven’t been happy in a while.”

“Don’t say that.”

She moved to sweep up the shards, wiping the blood away from her cheek. It left a smear under her eye. “It’s the truth. You can’t run from the truth. I just want you to be careful.”

 

***

 

_“Careful, careful.”_

_He took his first steps out of bed like a little deer, legs like twigs, shaky and unsteady. His hand was tight around yours._

_His eyes were wide. “I’m sorry, this is stupid, I’m sorry.”_

_You squeezed his fingers. “You got this.”_

_You took a step forward, and he leaned more heavily than expected on your shoulder. You stumbled, arm wind-milling, but it was too late to catch, and you both tumbled to the ground. Hard. You tensed; maybe he was hurt, maybe he would take this the wrong way, maybe he would freeze up under your hands and stop talking-_

_He burst out laughing._

_Head thrown back, chest heaving, belly laughing, and what choice did you have but to join in with him, laughing and laughing about everything and nothing at all. Tears were streaming out of your eyes, and Peter was still grasping for your hand._

_He looked alive._

_“Never leave me,” he said, a giant smile on his face. You would do anything for that smile. “Please never leave me.”_

 

***

 

“I will be careful.”

You wouldn’t.

 

 

 

 

ii.

 

_“Ohmygod, ohmygod that’s a lot of blood.”_

_Something had gone wrong. Your ankle was pulsing beneath your fingers. Spider-Man was pacing back and forth in front of you._

_“Ohmygod, I’ve got to call someone, I’ve got to call Mr. Stark, I’ve got to-”_

_“Peter.” You stopped him, and he whipped around in a panic, arms up. “Spidey, stop this, okay?”_

_He sounded close to tears. Your blood stained his palms. “We shouldn’t have gone out together. We shouldn’t have done this, you should have stayed home, I knew it, I knew it.”_

_“Hey, hey, we were going to be a crime fighting duo, were we not? I know I don’t have the radioactive spider bite on my side, but I thought I still got to be called Bug-Girl, or whatever.”_

_“Super-Bug,” he corrected absentmindedly._

_“Still just as stupid.”_

_“Y/N, I didn’t even know legs could produce that much blood.” He ran a hand over the top of his mask, sighing shakily. “Like, that’s a lot of blood.”_

_“I promise this isn’t as bad as it looks.” All in all, for a normal robbery case you’d help solve, you didn’t feel half-bad about how the whole thing had turned out. Being sliced by a knife hadn’t been in the plans, but it had been slightly exhilarating. And also really not fun. Like really really not fun._

_“It looks pretty fucking bad.”_

_“Don’t be dramatic.”_

 

***

 

_“We’ve got…sus-…arson…”_

You and Peter both whipped towards the police scanner, crackling semi-coherently through the old radio on the table between you. Blake huffed a laugh from where he sat beside you on the couch, arm rubbing your shoulder. “You two are so dramatic, I swear.”

You relaxed a little into his touch as the police went on to detail the location of the arson. “Sooner or later, the Pharmacist will show up on that radio and we’ll have a lead.”

“Whatever you say.” Blake stood up, stretching. “I think it’s cute how you two play detective.”

 

***

 

_May was stitching up your cut in the Parker’s living room because apparently that was just a thing you did when your son was a superhero, you rolled with the punches and stitched up kids who shouldn’t have had gashes two inches long at the age of sixteen._

_“We caught them, though, May!” Peter was twittering excitedly now, a little more color returning to his cheeks now that you were back in the apartment. Safe. Warm. “You wouldn’t believe how long we had to sit around the radio to figure out when the robbers would be around.”_

_She smiled a tight smile. One that didn't reach her eyes. “After all the listening you two did, I should hope you caught someone.”_

 

***

 

“I’m running to the store before class,” Blake rubbed your shoulder again. “You want anything? Salt and vinegar chips? More peanut butter? Condoms?”

You twitched. The radio sputtered, “ _Suspect…seen blue…shoes…”_

“Nope. I’m good. Thanks.”

He smiled. His lips were pressed thin. “Figured I’d ask so we don’t have another pregnancy scare.” He shifted his gaze to Peter. “Don’t recommend it, man. That wasn’t fun.”

Peter’s voice was even. “I can bet.”

Somehow, Blake’s shark smile grew wider. “Bye babe.” He kissed your forehead then left.

You kept your gaze solidly fixed on Peter’s computer screen, where Ned’s files on the Pharmacist were pulled up. You didn’t know what you expected from Peter as a response. You didn’t know if you wanted to know, but-

He giggled.

You turned to look at him. “What?”

He snorted, another giggle escaping pressed lips, and his eyes danced with mirth as he looked at you. “A pregnancy scare? Really, Y/N?”

You took a beat. “Yes?”

He was still giggling. “I’m just trying to imagine your face when you thought you were pregnant.”

“Hey,” but you were shoving his shoulder, giggling a little despite yourself, “that’s rude.”

“No, it’s just really fucking funny. How many pregnancy tests did you take?”

You closed your eyes. Blushing. “Guess.”

“Five.”

“Fifteen.”

“No!”

You opened your eyes, laughing. “Peter, it was so bad. I was so stressed. I was convinced I was pregnant. It was improbable, sure, but I was _convinced._ ”

He was shaking his head, rolling his eyes.

“This really isn’t funny, you know.”

“I know.” His face softened a bit. “But it feels good to laugh about.”

You fought the urge to touch him then. Trace fingers over the crease of his forehead, see if he felt like he used to, touch his breastbone above the thumping of his heart, see if it pulsed like it used to, trace lips over his ear, see if he tasted like he used to.

You didn’t move. “Yeah.” A small smile. “I guess it does.”

He smiled back. Swallowed hard. Gaze returning to the computer screen.

You followed his lead. “You think he could have done it?” A rather frail looking old man stared back at you, from a scanned version of Ned’s files. He didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t even look like he was capable of robbing a local flower stand. “He seems more like the type to be teaching physics at the university level to me.”

Peter shrugged “I mean, he used to do just that. Taught right here at Empire; Head of the Pharmacology department. It says here he got kicked out of the university for experimentation on replicating…”

“Effects of mutation on enhanced individuals.” You took a beat. “Like you. You said he matched your strength.”

Peter nodded, brow furrowed. A hand came up to rub up and down the hairs on his arm. “It seems like he might have succeeded.”

You frowned. “Okay, but what’s his modus operandi, then? He wants to enhance people. So, what? Lots of people want that, and it seems like he might have accomplished it. Why go around…” you read further in the article, fist clenching open and closed, “injecting your victims with poison and then giving them months to live?”

Peter didn’t seem bothered by this. “People do fucked up things every day for no reason.”

“This though? You really think?”

He was still rubbing absentmindedly at his arm, and his gaze studied your own. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

He shook his head, and a muscle in his neck twitched. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Well, when you that it means it’s definitely something.”

He stood up like he’d been shocked, jolting into action. “ _Backup…block of…need…”_ the radio jabbered, and Peter was scratching the back of his neck, up and down, aggressively. It was turning an angry red. “It’s-” He stopped, cracking his neck from side to side, eyes closed.

“Something’s wrong.” You said it plainly, because it was true. It was always true.

He flicked his hands open, fingers splaying wide, as if he were trying to flick water from his fingertips. He was shaking his head, eyes still closed. “Something’s always wrong.”

Even from here, you could see every hair on his arm standing straight up. “Something bigger, then.”

There was a sort of _pop_ in the back of your head, and then warmth from your nose to your lips. Peter’s eyebrows drew together.

“You’re bleeding.”

 

***

 

_He said it first._

_That night. When you had stiches in your leg and May let you both sleep on the couch and you were tangled up in Peter in all literal and figurative senses of the word._

_There were lips on your forehead. Your face, pressed into the hollow of Peter’s neck. His voice rumbled, gravelly._

_“I love you.”_

 

***

 

“Here.” He was by your side with tissues in an instant. His fingers pressed firmly on your nose, and though you reached up to take the paper from his hands, he didn’t move. “Lean forward,” he said, gently.

Your blood was on his knuckles. Why was your blood always on his hands? “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond, just squeezed a little bit tighter. Your mouth was coated in metallic.

You could hear Blake’s keys jingling in the hallway. Peter took a deep breath. “I don’t care.”

Your eyes found his, voice distorted from his holding of it. “You dobn’t care, whab?”

“If you’re happy with Blake.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I don’t care. You deserve it.”

“I amb happy.”

His eyebrow twitched. “ _You_ care, though, right? You care whether you’re happy?”

With his free hand he pushed a strand of hair back behind your ear, and somehow the movement was so tender so soft and peter and home and everything that you had been missing that the words just tumbled out before you could stop them because they were the truth and-

“I lobe you.”

Blake opened the apartment door. Peter dropped the bloody tissue. You chipped a bit of crimson from your lip.

Blake frowned from the kitchen. “Is that blood?” He crossed to rub some off your cheek.

“Bloody nose,” you said dismissively. “it’s nothing.”

He paused. “Everything good?” He frowned towards you, and then up towards Peter. “He looks like he’s about to cry.”

“He always just looks like that.”

_“Pharmacist spotted…Westover Ave…Bridge…calling for immediate…”_

“Sweet!” Blake exclaimed, punching a fist as mock excitement. “This is just what you guys have been waiting for, right?” Neither you nor Peter moved. Blake eyes darted rapidly between you two. “Come on, let’s go catch some bad guys! I want to kick some ass!”

“I thought you considered all of this stupid.” The words came out of your mouth as though spoken by another person.

“Oh certainly.” But Blake was taking your hand, and somehow Peter was following too, and what had you just done, what had you just done. “But I’m curious, I must admit. I want to see a criminal in action.”

whathadyoujustdone?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies! another week, another chapter- i hope you enjoyed! i wrote this one while not feeling particularly well, so i hope it's coherent...:) 
> 
> what did you think of y/n's "reveal" (i put that in quotes bc did she mean it? didn't she mean it?) of her feelings about peter? were they just empty words? how will he respond?
> 
> (either way i promise we're FAR from out of the angst woods yet so don't you worry a thing about it). next chapter PROMISES to have some...testing moments as peter, y/n, and BLAKE (ultimate third wheel????) try and take crime fighting back into their own hands. plus, who knows, some blood might get spilled. i make no promises.
> 
> as always, thank you thank you for reading, and if you feel so inclined, leave a comment or kudos! i love interacting with y'all, and can't wait to give you more next week! (also i may be going in tomorrow/monday and adding in chapter titles, so if you see another update before next weekend, that's prob what that is) <3


	11. penultimate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *ominous music plays lightly in the background*

Blake held your hand over the gear shift. Your fingers were limp in his own. Peter squashed in the backseat. His face was impassive, staring out the window. Every so often he would frown down at his phone, scrolling through a few pages. When his eyes caught yours, they were troubled, though he quickly smoothed out his expression, mouth twitching into the semblance of a smile.

Something warm dripped off your lips, and a bead of crimson appeared on the back of Blake’s hand. He twitched, and your fingers went up to your face.

Blake frowned. “Your nose bleeding again?”

You studied the scarlet on your fingertips, confused. “I guess so.” You pinched your nostrils shut with one hand while the other snaked behind the seat, feeling in the back of the seat pocket for pack of tissues. Fingers met your own; Peter pressing the tissues into your hand. You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Blake’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, squinting at the backseat. “You know where we’re going, right?”

Peter nodded. “You’re still headed straight for a while.”

Blake mimicked his nod, fingers tapping the wheel. He pulled his hand from your own, wiping the blood away. Eyes interchanging from the mirror to the road, mirror, road. The tissue grew warm with blood over your upper lip. “So, you do this often?”

“Do what?”

“Crime fighting.”

Peter stiffened behind you. You squeezed the tissue tighter over your nose, uncomfortably hard.

Peter was completely even in his response. “No. Believe it or not, cops usually don’t like nineteen-year-olds going around doing their work for them.”

“Oh.” Blake said it like he was going to drop the subject. He was not going to drop the subject. “It just seems like you’ve done this before.”

Your eyes flickered to Peter in the rearview mirror. He looked down at his phone. “Turn left.”

“Is this something you two used to do together?” Blake turned left, and the car started snaking down by an abandoned warehouse district. The East River wound, placid and deceivingly calm, to your right. “Look up criminals and then chase them down?”

“Blake.” You touched his shoulder. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged. Ever the picture of nonchalance. “I’m just asking.”

“He already told you no.”

The car bounced over uneven pavement, and you jerked against the seatbelt. Blake swallowed, hard. “You guys are just so cute. It’s like if-”

“Stop the car.” Peter’s voice was quiet, but suddenly insistent from the backseat.

“What?”

“Stop the car.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed, but he complied, slowing the car and pulling over to the side of the road. “Should I, like, drive down an alley and be inconspicuous or something?” he asked, frowning at the sudden change in tone.

Peter rubbed a hand over his arm. You could see his hair standing straight up. His face was carefully impassive. “I don’t think that matters.”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Okay, well _that’s_ both ominous and completely not reassuring at all.” He put the car in park. “Should we get out? Is this where the shindig is going down?”

You shielded your eyes, looking out the window. It was a quiet, February afternoon in New York; a few seagulls swooping down towards long-forgotten pallets, the river moving silently, constantly. To your left, a few warehouses stood in various states of dilapidated disrepair.

You turned to Peter. “It seems…”

“Quiet,” he finished, still rubbing arm. “I know. I don’t like it.”

“Are we sure he’s even around?” Blake asked, unbuckling. He made to open his door, but Peter’s hand shot forward, halting him.

“I don’t want him to be around.” He dropped his grip on Blake, and the other boy rubbed his forearm, frowning. “We’re a few blocks away from where the police radioed. From what I gathered from Ned’s notes, the Pharmacist is usually spotted around this area. Believe it or not, I don’t particularly _want_ to run into a known psychopath; I’m hoping we can find some sort of hide out, some sort of place where he keeps clues, or anything that could help us-”

“Incriminate him?” Blake asked, a slightly incredulous look on his face. “You know he’s already a criminal, right? Like, I’m not really sure what we’re trying to accomplish here. The police are going after this guy.”

“The police won’t catch him.”

Blake laughed, a loud grumbling thing, starting from the belly, shot through the mouth. “And _you_ will?”

“We don’t want to catch him,” you said, but the words clunked out of your mouth, heavy and strange. Now that you were here, with a breeze from the water whistling in from your cracked window, you felt an electricity in the air that felt alive. Dangerous. “We’re just looking for evidence tying him back to my parents.”

“And then what?” Blake reached over to pull the tissue away from your nose, dabbing gently at your upper lip. “We get the evidence and then we give it to the police and then they do nothing? Peter already said they won’t catch him. What are you going to do- mail the evidence off in an envelope to Spider-Man and hope some spandex-clad hero swoops in to clean up your mess?”

Peter flinched in the backseat. The car shook.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do after today,” you said, forcing your voice to be even. “But I know this is the next step.” At least you thought it was. You hoped it was.

Blake turned, squinting at Peter. “And you. Are you sure this-”

_THUMP._

The car rattled.

Peter stilled, a feline quality coming over his movements. He slipped the seatbelt off his shoulders. Blake whipped towards the window. “What the fuck was-”

Peter was lunging towards him, protecting him, you realized, but it was too late. The driver’s side window smashed open, the screeching of glass, Blake’s body, dragged over shards of the window frame. The fabric of his jacket tearing. Tearing a scream from his mouth.

Peter, out the window of the car, following, before you could blink. Fumbling with your seatbelt, hands not working, come on, come on, click the release button goddammit, blake blake blake, you had to get to him. Car door- throwing open. Eyes blinded by the sun.

A crumpled form on the concrete. Blake. Legs stumbling forward. Peter, peter, by your side, a shining mirage of energy. “It was him.” His eyes were wild, scared. “He pulled Blake out of the car and then left. I tried to follow, but he got away.”

You knelt down by Blake’s side, reaching out to squeeze his hand, feel his pulse thudding beneath your fingertips. “Blake? Are you okay?”

His eyes were shut, grimacing. A hand twitched towards his forehead, and he groaned. Blood oozed from a cut on his collarbone; clothes rumpled and torn.

Peter was rubbing the back of his neck, wincing.

“Did he get you?” You didn’t want to speak the words.

“I don’t know.” Peter’s eyes were as wide as saucers. He looked down at Blake. “We need to get him out of here. This was a mistake.”

“Blake.” You reached out to touch his cheek. “Can you stand? What hurts?”

“E’rywhere,” he mumbled, eyes opening to hazily find yours. You tried to slow your hand from trembling. It was like he wasn’t all the way there.

“Peter, can you carry him?”

Peter crouched beside you two, shifting Blake’s upper body easily into his arms. He paused before standing, however, eyes finding yours. “Is this a good idea?” You knew what he was thinking. With his enhanced powers, Peter was your best chance against the Pharmacist, should the older man return. If his hands were occupied, it only increased your vulnerability.

Blake was struggling to keep his eyes open. “I can…walk. I can do it.” He pushed against Peter’s hands, attempting to prop his upper body up on his own. His movements were sluggish; like he was wading through syrup.

You squeezed his hand. “Just stay still.” Your voice was almost a whisper. Any louder and you’d betray how nervous, how absolutely scared _shitless_ you were. Blake didn’t have a healing factor that counteracted poisons.

Peter rubbed a hand over his shoulder. “Did he stab you with anything, Blake? A needle?”

“Mmmaybe?” Blake slurred, still struggling to get to his feet. Peter helped him get the final push, and the two stood, Blake wavering and leaning on you heavily for support. “I don’t…rememberrr.”

Ice ran through your veins. “Peter-”

“Let’s go.” He placed a protective hand on your elbow, fingers gripping tightly, steering you to stumble back towards the car.

You felt white hot; electric. Like if you stopped and paused you might start screaming or crying or laughing. But you couldn’t stop. Had to keep putting one foot over another. Because all you felt was scared scared scared. Adrenaline, liquid vitality, pumping pumping through your veins.

You were nearly to the car when Blake stumbled, sagging beneath your grip. You shifted so you were supporting his shoulders, but you couldn’t hold all of his sudden dead weight. Peter was beside you in an instant, trying to haul him back upwards. His face was pale, the scary kind of pale where people looked like a gray filtered version of themselves, and his breaths were coming fast and shallow through his mouth.

“Peter.” You looked at him, holding Blake’s arm in your hand. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingers. Distant.

“Come on, man, we’re almost there.” Peter shifted so Blake was in his arms, swinging legs up to carry him bridal style like he weighed nothing more than a child.

“I cannnnn’t ffeeel.” Blake’s head lolled from Peter’s arms.

“Okay, it’s okay, we’re going to get you help.” Peter gave Blake a brief smile, though his pace quickened towards where you were parked. “Don’t close your eyes, okay? Stay awake.”

You were nearly to the car. Almost there. So so close.

“I ccaan’t.” It was like he was trying to talk with peanut butter in his mouth.

“Yes, you can.” The car doors were up ahead. You sped up.

“I’m scareddd.”

“Don’t be scared. I’ll tell you a secret.”

“Wwwhat?”

You opened the passenger side door for Peter as he approached.

“I’m Spider-Man. So, I save people all the time.”

“I kkknew itt.” Blake had a ditzy sort of grin on his face. “I knewww she’d like some shit like thattt.”

“Yeah, it’s really a-”

Peter stumbled.

Blake slid from his arms with the force, landing dead weight on the concrete, and Peter was frowning, going to walk towards you but his feet weren’t working correctly, and he was just tripping forward, slipping, arms windmilling, crashing, catching the hood of the car. The frame groaned and dented where it caught his weight.

“Peter?”

His hand was white on the metal of the car, and it seemed to take a lot of his effort to look up at you, to keep himself upright. Blake was motionless on the ground beside him. “Get out of here,” he said through gritted teeth. “This is bad.”

“No.” You reached him, shifting his weight from the car onto yourself. His shoulder dug into your collarbone. “I won’t leave both of you. You know that.”

His knees buckled, and you lowered together towards the ground. His eyes fluttered. Your hand clenched into a fist; pulsing. The biting of your fingertips into your palm. You were still alive. You were okay. You were going to make this okay.

“Come on, Peter. Stay here. Please.” His eyes stayed open, but you could tell it was with a great effort. “I’m scared.”

His words fell clunkily from lips. “Whatever he got us with, it’s strong. I can’t…I can’t hold on too much longer.”

“No. No. Don’t go.”

You shook his shoulders. Hard. His eyes- open, closed. Open, closed, closed. “It’ssss not…I don’t think it’s poison. I don’t thinkkk we’ll die yet. I’ve been able to…to fight it for this long. It’ssss…” he pulled in a long breath, “it’s a paralytic. I think he just…wantsss…”

“Peter.” Open, closed. Closed. Closed. “No. No, Peter, come on. Come on, don’t do this.” He was limp muscle in your arms. A seagull cawed in the distance. There was a sharp pinch at the base of your neck. You blinked.

 

floating through the air, peter, arms and legs limp, musty air, dust motes whirling overhead, in the rafters, dark, dim, damp, damp, damp, water by your head or was that blood, wrists rough with rope, pounding, pounding, your head _hurt_ , it hurt, blake, bound up in a chair, peter, opposite, their heads hanging like rag dolls, a chair, cold and hard, beneath you, wrists, behind you, bound, ankles, bound, eyes, open, theirs, closed, color drained from both their faces

a large warehouse, you were arranged in a triangle, one in each corner. peter. blake. yourself. The room was incredibly large, almost blue in tint through the old windows. Industrial type pillars held up the roof at various intervals. Though sunlight was still streaming in from large windows by the ceiling, the place had a cool, drafty feel.

And the booklets. They were everywhere. Your brain, still too hazy to read them, to make out the words, but you recognized the covers, littering the floor. They made a carpet of literature beneath the chairs. Propaganda. You had learned about these booklets in school, about the group who made them. Radicals who thought he had been right in the Reaping. Thanos.

Gwen had brought one of these particular pamphlets home one time, throwing it down on the kitchen counter. The groups would sometimes come to college campuses; handing out their literature with a free candy bar. A whole list of counterarguments to the Reversal. Why the world had really been better off when half the population occupied it. The ground of this warehouse was coated in them.

Some distant part of you registered fear. The other, slower part of your brain realized you didn’t have the space to process complex emotions in your drugged state. Thoughts came and left; like when you were younger and you and Peter would stick your hands in the river and fish would swim between your fingers but when you closed your hand they’d slip away, faster than air.

You weren’t scared. You were just existing.

You blinked. An old man was in front of you. Wiry. Nothing more than sinew, muscle, and bone. Wild mane of white hair, piercing blue eyes. Hands that shook as they regarded you.

“Hello.”

You remembered you had lips. A tongue. “You killed my parents.”

He shrugged. There was a knife in his belt. “I’m on a path of righteousness. It was the only way everything could go.”

“I want to know why.” In front of you, behind him, Blake and Peter. Still in chairs.

The Pharmacist followed your gaze. “Effective, isn’t it? I’ve been working on a concoction that would work on your one friend there since we met in the alleyway.”

You tried to move your wrists. Not awake yet. “I don’t understand.”

He moved away from you, sweeping his hands in a grand, dramatic sort of gesture. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Your parents certainly didn’t.”

“You didn’t know my parents at all.”

“Didn’t I?” He stopped his pacing, hands freezing midair. Dust motes swirled around his fingers lazily. “You _do_ know what they did as an occupation, correct?”

“They were doctors,” you told him defiantly. “They helped save people.”

“Mmmm,” his face was skeptical, and your heartbeat in your temples, hard. You wished you could move your hands, wished you could punch his brains out. “Close, but no cigar.” His voice shifted, interested. “But tell me: you really don’t know?”

“I know you’re a psychopath who’s experimented on himself and probably countless others. I know you’re a part of some freakish cult who thinks…” you swallowed the rest of your words as he paced his way towards Blake.

“Who thinks what?” He wasn’t physically imposing. But his hand was on Blake’s chair now, and you could see his fist bending the metal.

“Who thinks Thanos was right. That the world needs…a Reaping or something.”

“Those months were glorious.” He stepped away from Blake, and you breathed a little easier. “Weren’t they? Or don’t you know?” He eyed you critically. “Sure, everything was chaotic; all the systems disrupted and all of that- but we would have figured everything out. We would have righted ourselves. And everyone who was unworthy? Gone. Natural selection.”

“It seemed like unnatural selection, to me.”

He laughed, surprised. “Maybe so. Maybe we could fix that this time.”

“What are you talking about?”

He paced away from the two boys, back over towards you. “I’ve been working on something, and I’m nearly finished. I’ll right every wrong. I’ll put the universe back into balance.”

Your eyes bored into Peter’s, willing him to wake up, willing him to stir. He would know what to do in this situation. You were just a scared nobody. A facsimile of a superhero. “You have no clue what you’re doing.”

Your nose dripped onto your lips. Blood spattered onto your lap.

The old man smiled. “Don’t I?” He crossed so he was standing over Blake’s chair, tracing a hand over his cheek. “I think the universe will sort itself out soon enough. But you’re right, I think. There should be a choice. You can have a choice.”

He looked at you expectantly. Peter’s fingers twitched. A crease appeared between his eyebrows.

“I don’t understand.”

His smile widened, and the knife flashed sliver in the sunlight. He twirled it through his fingers. “There’s a fifty/fifty chance each of these boys survives the next Reaping. I’m letting you have an early hand in the decision.” He crossed to your chair, knife shivering, and your wrists were free from their bondage.

You pulled them towards your lap, opening and closing fists. Your hands were waking up, pins and needles. You needed to get out of here, you needed to run but your legs weren’t working, you needed to pull Blake into your arms and _fix him_ , you needed-

“One of them dies.” He pressed the weapon into your fingers. It was cold and hard and deadly in your palms. The Pharmacist smiled. “You choose.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnnn...
> 
> got any theories about who she'll choose? how it'll all shake out? i wanna hear ;)
> 
> thanks for joining me for another chap! this honestly has been a super rough week for me; i have really not been feeling well physically or mentally lately, so it's been a hard go of it. i also have a writing professor this semester who is an ASS so i've been using this fic as a release from that- so thank you for making this such a creative, fun, and positive space :) i love you guys so much, and i am excited to keep sharing this story with y'all. things are about to get real interesting.
> 
> if you feel so inclined, please leave a kudos or a review! either way, though, know that you are loved and i hope you have a crazy awesome week <3
> 
> (i will be traveling this upcoming weekend, so Im going to try and have the next chapter up by saturday BUT it may be running late so just keep your eyes peeled (or, who knows, maybe i'll get it up early!))


	12. crybaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im not sure if this is fluff or angst and at this point im too afraid to ask

“Choose.”

The knife was too heavy in your hands. “No.”

 .

nine years old-

He appeared beside you at recess, dirt-smudged and bleary eyed, bright red scrapes blossoming on his elbows and forearms. He ghosted by your side for a few moments as you finished the monkey bars, legs kicking beneath you. Once finished, you dropped from the bars, wiping your hands off on your pants as you scrutinized him.

“Want to play in the sandbox?” You reached out a hand.

He paused, fingers hovering near yours. In fourth grade, holding hands was nothing short of taboo. And yet, his clasped around yours anyway, and you pulled him towards the sandbox, working together to build a castle with an impressive amount of structural integrity for a couple of nine-year-olds.

He took a leaf and put it on the top turret. You reached out towards his scraped elbow. “Who did it?”

He flinched from your fingers, though you hadn’t touched him. “No one.”

“You’re lying.” You adjusted the leaf from where he placed it. “We learned about that. You shouldn’t lie.”

“I tripped.” He added rocks next to the leaf.

You reached out, smashing a hand into the turret so it crumbled under your fingers, deformed.

Peter’s face crumpled. “You ruined it.”

“Tell me who hurt you.”

His eyes flickered over to a group of raucous fifth grade boys loitering near the slide, blocking smaller kids from coming down. A blond boy caught you staring and jeered at the sand box.

Peter flinched, and his eyes slipped back to repairing the castle. “Don’t do anything.”

You were quiet.

“It’s okay.”

“Let’s make a new castle.” You knocked your creation completely over.

Later, after you watched Peter’s back return through the classroom door, you marched up to the blond-haired kid.

This was the first time you got detention for punching.

.

Peter’s eyes were open now, blinking owlishly towards you.

“I don’t think you understand what kind of choice I’m giving you here.” The Pharmacist danced before your pounding eyes. “One or the other. Who do you spare?”

. 

eleven years old-

There was a note on your counter- your parents working overtime. Wouldn’t be home until late. There was always a note on the counter. So instead of the family dinners that were always promised, you would instead be rambling around the Parker’s apartment.

You liked it there- it was loud and busy in a way that never felt loud or busy. You would sit on the counter and May would be cooking breakfast before she headed to the night shift, Peter hovering near her elbows, ostensibly helping, though he was just waiting for May to slip him some cinnamon roll dough.

Some song would be playing obnoxiously loud, and of course the song would be Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” because that was the only song Peter listened to, and he’d hop and spin and jump in time, flour flying off his hair as he danced spastically around, a bundle of limbs and elbows.

Then the chorus would kick in and he’d warble, incredibly off-key, “ _I love you, baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you baby…_ ”

And, as suave as an acne-riddled eleven-year-old can be, he’d swing May around and somehow he would dance, giggling, his sock feet on top of hers, and Ben would come in the door to the three of you absolutely in shambles, dancing manically because everything was just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you, and he would take one look at the flour and the sock feet and the unmade cinnamon rolls and just laugh and laugh.

. 

“Both.”

He smiled. “Both is not an option.”

 .

thirteen years old-

He let you lay on his bed with him.

It scared you.

By the time you’d arrived, he’d already cried it all out. Already screamed it all out. Used up the anger, used up the pain, used up the laughter and the tears and the sheer gut-wrenching trauma of living and loss and having things torn from grasping hands. Didn’t have energy to do anything but lay.

The room was completely silent. Moonlight poured in through the window, but otherwise it was dark, furniture cast in an eerie glow. For once, Peter’s bunk bed was made, not rumpled. His desk was clean, the only thing covering it was a radio carcass, wire sticking out haphazardly. There weren’t clothes covering the floor- it was as if someone else had lived in this room for the past twenty-four hours. Someone decidedly not Peter-like in tendencies.

You laid next to him on the bottom bunk. He was curled up in a ball, limbs all compacted underneath an extra-large sweatshirt that had belonged to Ben. It had the insignia of a baseball team emblazoned across the front. You could hear May sobbing from the next room over. She was trying to be quiet. The walls were thin.

Peter was still silent, and the moon reflected off his eyes as he stared up at the top bunk. You didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move. You weren’t sure what to say, weren’t sure what to do.

His fingers twitched upwards, eyes focusing on knuckles. There were flicks of rusted blood. It wasn’t his own. He squinted at them, like he was confused.

You reached out and cradled his hand in yours. His eyes slipped shut.

 .

Blake was stirring now, his face pulling into a grimace. “Wuzzgoinon?”

The Pharmacist opened his arms wide. “Looks like they’re awake, dear. Your time to shine.”

 .

thirteen years old-

“Can I tell you something?”

He plopped his tray down across from you at the cafeteria too hard, and the plastic snapped in half under his grip. His eyes were wide; nervous and desperate.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

That was the night you saw him walk on walls.

 .

Peter was frowning towards you and the knife. His movements were even more sluggish than Blake’s. The old man’s grin widened as he saw you watching. “He might be out of it for a while. I wasn’t sure about the dosage.”

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Blake was straining against the ropes keeping him tied to the chair.

_THWACK_. The thud of flesh against flesh. Blake, groaning, his jaw bleeding. The Pharmacist, smiling. “Putting the universe back into balance.”

 .

fourteen years old-

What did a kiss mean? It meant nothing. It meant everything.

Peter was your best friend. He knew to squeeze your hand twice before tests because it was good luck and that you liked to wear sweatshirts even when it was too warm for them and he ate the crusts off your sandwiches at lunch because the middle was always the best part. What did it mean that you had pressed your lips against his for a few awkward seconds?

It meant nothing.

You rode the train together still, shoulders bumping against one another, listening to the same playlist so you could dance to the same parts at the same time.

It meant everything.

Peter had kissed Ned too. It was just a thing friends did. That kids did, to experiment, to see what things were like. He held hands with Ned too.

When he held yours, you got butterflies.

It meant nothing.

“Look at those birds!” Pulling you towards the sight- thousands of swallows flocking together through the afternoon air- face lit up with a happiness you hadn’t seen in so long. Hand tugging, squeezing against yours.

It meant everything.

. 

“Don’t touch her.” Blake’s eyes were hard, scanning yours.

“I haven’t. She’s perfectly fine.”

Something hard was in your coat pocket. You could feel it resting on your hand between fabric.

 

fifteen years old-

He was bloody on your fire escape.

You scrambled to open the window, helping him inside. He stumbled, unsteady on his feet. “What the hell?”

“I stopped the Vulture,” he mumbled, eyes sliding loosely over yours. “Don’t tell May, ‘kay?”

This was the first time he stained your furniture.

 .

Carefully, watching the Pharmacist’s eyes to be sure they were still on Blake, you slipped a hand inside your pocket.

Web shooters.

 .

sixteen years old-

It happened unexpectedly.

He flew into the apartment, eyes ablaze, “You’ll never guess what happened! Mr. Stark let me try out this new thing in the lab and I was like, ‘I don’t know if you want to trust me with that,’ but then he was like, ‘I’d trust you with my life,’ and I was like ‘Woah, wait what, seriously?’ and then he was like, ‘Yeah, and I’ve been working on a little something for you along those lines too, in case I ever _do_ need to trust you with my life,’ and I was like, ‘Wtf,’ like, I literally said the letters w-t-f, it was kinda embarrassing, but then he just smirked and kind of wiggled his eyebrows and I don’t really know what that means BUT I’m super excited about it because I THINK it means he might give me a new suit!”

He caught you up in an excited hug, pulling you tight against him. You felt that feeling you hadn’t felt in a while, or maybe you had lied and told yourself you hadn’t felt it in a while. Like he was yours and you wanted to cradle him forever.

He shifted backwards, pulling out of the hug but keeping your hands in his own. Swaying from side to side.

It took you a long second figure out what exactly the dork was doing, singing entirely off-key and dancing in a style only describable as “Peter-like”- you had left your computer open playing music. “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”

You reached over to turn up the song, blasting it, and suddenly you were both standing up on the counter (something May would _not_ have been happy about, had she known), jamming out side to side, and you could just see his carefree smile, the way his eyes glowed, dancing that Peter dance, and you were screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs, loud enough the bass was rattling the window pane and “I LOVE YOU BABYYYYY” and the music was building and suddenly Peter was pulling you down from the counter and you were doing some complicated partner dance involving hip bumping and him twirling you enough ways you couldn’t see straight, could only hear his laugh and the feeling of his fingers gripping your own.

“ _I love you, baby_.” And suddenly you weren’t singing, but he didn’t know, he was dipping you low to the ground, and when you swung back up, your hands were on his face and there was a moment when you paused.

Staring. A question.

A breath.

“ _I love you, baby.”_

He giggled, smiling. And then he kissed you for the second time.

 .

Peter. Peter. You needed him. You needed to get him his web shooters somehow.

“And what about him?” Blake jerked his chin towards Peter, who was still blinking in and out of consciousness.

The old man shrugged. “The drug will wear off with time, most likely. He is my first mutant test subject, so I can’t be certain.”

With this, panic swept through you. Hands trembling. It wouldn’t matter. Even if you could find a way to get the web shooters to him, it wouldn’t matter. He was in no shape to use them.

“Not that the test will be relevant soon.” He spun back towards you. “Enough of this nonsense. Time to choose.”

 .

seventeen years old-

It was a good day.

Finally. Finally it was a good day.

You and Peter, born days apart, and a year young in school. The runts. You had shared birthday parties from since you could remember. But this year was different. Because this year, your seventeenth year, Peter was _yours._

“Where are we going?”

But he wouldn’t answer, just tugging your hand as you continued to climb the fire escape. “Keep up, slow poke.”

“Hey, I’m not endowed with super speed.” The words slipped from your mouth without thinking, and there was a breath afterwards where you paused, eyes watching Peter worriedly. But if he was bothered by the insinuation of Spider-Man, he didn’t flinch, didn’t stutter. Today you were untouchable.

“No, you aren’t,” he conceded. “And that makes you so freakin’ slow sometimes, I swear. I’m not patient enough.”

Finally, you reached where he was taking you- the top of your apartment building. He gave a little whoop and holler as you stepped over the ledge onto the roof. There wasn’t much up there; no terrace or pool like other nicer complexes. Instead there was a conglomeration of metal air conditioning units and a large collection of dirt. The wind whistled around your faces, pricking cheeks and lips.

“Come look.” He was tugging you closer to a ledge, hand wrapping around your waist. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

And New York was. There was the odd feeling that came with being able to see for miles and miles. Gods, surveying your dominion. All the lights, twinkling below.

“It is,” you whispered, hand ghosting over his fingers on your hip. “It’s lovely up here.”

He tugged you down, sitting on the ledge, his feet dangling over the side of the building. You followed, heart pumping a little as you did so, because it was a _long_ way to the ground, but you knew you wouldn’t fall, you trusted Peter implicitly.

“You good?” he asked.

You pecked him on the lips, just once. “You got me.”

He turned, rifling through his backpack for a brief moment before retrieving something from inside. He offered it towards you. “For us to share. A birthday treat.”

It was an ice cream cake, already half-melted and dripping. The text was purple cursive on the top. “ _Consolations on your loss_?”

He shrugged, a cheeky grin coming over his face as he took the top off the cake. “It was on sale.”

“No shit.”

“Don’t knock our cake!” he said indignantly. “I bought it for us to share!”

“I love it, I really do. Did you bring something for us to eat it with, though?”

This had him pausing. Lips pressed together, and then he was rifling through his backpack, brow furrowed, muttering to himself. “Shit, shit, shit, I knew I forgot something.”

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.”

“No, no.” His breath caught, and his eyes were panicked. “No, I just wanted one thing to go right for once, I-”

“Peter, it’s okay, really.”

“I’ll find a solution, I promise,” he suddenly sounded close to tears, “I’ll think of something, I’ll-”

You leaned down and licked off the top layer of frosting.

He started. “What the hell are you doing.”

You shrugged, sucking off the top layer of whipped cream too. “It’s good. You should try.”

“I-” He was frozen, eyes still guarded.

“Come on,” you reached a hand right into the middle of the cake, ice cream cold and melty beneath your fingers. You offered him a chunk dripping from your hand. “Try it.”

“I messed it up.” He wouldn’t look at you, eyes full of tears.

You smeared the ice cream across his cheek, pushing it up against his lips. “Try itttttt. Try it, try it, try it try it try it.”

He leaned away, but, despite himself, a surprised laugh escaped his lips.

“Come on.” You were scooping another hand into the cake, giggling too, offering it towards him, but he was scrambling away, trying to escape your hands, screaming as he ran across the rooftop. “Come on, Peter, you have to try it!”

His grin was sticky and wide and wild. He dodged beneath your outstretched hand, darting to the ledge and grabbing the cake. You spun around, still determined to get him, but he was holding the cake outwards to you and suddenly there was ice cream all over your face. His laugh was a victory peal.

“You fucker!” You wiped ice cream from your eyes, a whole face covered in stick. “Get back over here!”

He was in your arms, still laughing, hands wrapped around your elbows. You tried for an angry expression and failed. His happiness was infectious. With that cheeky grin still on his face, he leaned forward and pecked your nose.

“I agree,” he said, as he pulled away. “The cake is good.”

 .

Blake’s eyes were wide on your own. “Babe, whatever he’s making you do, it’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.”

“No.” The web shooters were cool in your palm.

“Choose.”

“We’re going to make it through this. We’ll be okay.”

Peter was still in his chair. Unmoving, now.

 .

eighteen years old-

Some days were bad days.

Some days Peter couldn’t leave his bed. You would lay there together for hours. Maybe it would have been better if you had cried or screamed at each other. But instead the fan was off. The lights were off. Two bodies on a twin bed, and you’d stare up at the top bunk together. Neither would speak. On the good bad days, he’d let you touch him.

On the bad bad days you even weren’t allowed in his room.

 .

“Choose.”

You gathered your resolve.

“Come on, I know there’s got to be one you’d rather see around.”

 .

eighteen years old-

“Do you want someone to sit with you?”

The noise made you jump, wiping self-consciously at your eyes. There was a boy standing before you, vaguely recognizable. He was in your…your rhetoric class or something. Broad shouldered, brown haired. Smart eyes.

You tried to wipe your nose discreetly on your jacket sleeve, tried to make it look like you hadn’t just been crying. “Sorry?”

He pinked, and it was as though his courage deflated a little bit. “I’m sorry, this is probably super weird and presumptuous of me. But you just looked like you needed someone to sit with you.”

“I…” You faltered. You did want someone to sit with you. To pull you from this haze. Breaking up with Peter. Seeing him at Christmas. Of him telling everyone he’d rather they never talked to him again. “No, actually, sure. I’d like that.”

“My name’s Blake.” He sat beside you, pulling out a pair of earbuds and his phone. “Want to listen? No one should have to cry alone.”

 .

The web shooters wrapped around your wrist. The Pharmacist was dragging the chairs towards each other so that Peter and Blake were side by side, facing you.

“There’s got to be one you like better, right?”

He pet Peter’s curls with one hand.

The web shooters clicked into place.

“One you can’t see your life without?”

He reached out to stroke Blake’s cheek. The boy flinched away, but the Pharmacist’s hand was faster, touching him anyway.

“Go on, take your pick.”

“No.”

The Pharmacist smiled. “That’s not an option.”

“No!”

This time you aimed the web shooter right at his face. You shot.

 .

eighteen years old-

Blake bought you an ice cream cake for your eighteenth birthday. It was a sweet gesture; he was trying to surprise you. You told him ice cream upset your stomach.

The cake went in the trash.

 .

The web missed by a mile.

 .

nineteen years old-

“Come here.” He’d pull you closer even before you’d even ask. Tuck blankets tighter around your shoulders. “I love you. We’re going to make it through this.”

Because you were coming apart at the seams; unraveling faster than you had ever felt possible, losing your stuffing and buttons and all the things that made you up. You were slipping through your fingers because somehow your parents had died and Peter wouldn’t call you back and somewhere along the way he had fought in a war and half the world had turned to dust and everything had just gone to shit and you weren’t sure why or how or how to put it all back together.

“We don’t need to put it all back together.” Blake kissed your forehead. “We’ll make something new instead.”

. 

The Pharmacist watched the web fly by, surprised. Then he turned back to you.

“Okay.” Quicker than a heartbeat, he was a blur, standing by the boys but the knife was out of your lap and instead he was wielding it, glinting up in the air and- “I’ll choose, then.”

 .

nineteen years old-

When you were feeling guilty and sad and alone, you called Peter’s phone and listened to his voicemail.

“ _Hey, this is Peter. Leave a message!”_

It wasn’t anything special. The artificial cheeriness of recording an audio message to no one. But it was your ritual. Whenever Blake wasn’t over, you listened to it before bed.

“ _Hey, this is Peter.”_

You closed your eyes.

_“Leave a message!”_

 .

The knife shivered.

A fountain of blood.

Peter groaned, too late.

Blake screamed.

Blood, blood, blood.

But it wasn’t a scream, it was guttural wail, and he was keening forward, and there was blood spraying from his neck and blake blake blake blake blake.

 .

nineteen years old-

“We’re going to make it through this.”

That was Blake’s mantra.

Serious: when you’d forgotten to study for an exam occurring in just a few hours. He’d grab you by the hands before you could panic, “We’re going to make it through this.”

Tender: when you were nothing more than a sniffling mess and it was embarrassing because you remembered what it was like to care for someone this broken, and whispered, “We’re going to make it through this.”

Laughing: when you bought every ingredient from the store for pumpkin pie but the pumpkin itself and it was already Thanksgiving so it was too late to run back to the store because they were all sold out, “We’re going to make it through this.”

 .

“Oh, and this is for good measure.” He plunged the knife into Peter’s chest.

 .

seven years old-

“Come on, Peter! I’ll race you!”

Tiny feet, racing down the streets, tiny shoes, pitter patter pitter patter. He was out in front, small and wiry, backpack bouncing along up and down.

“I’m faster than you!”

You picked up your pace, sprinting ahead. “No, you aren’t!” You ran through a crosswalk, spinning around to grin at him. “Look! See, I beat you!”

He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. “What? How? The race wasn’t over yet!”

“Yes, it was,” you replied, panting and smiling. “It ended at that crosswalk. And I was in front. I won.” It was all rather simple.

He squinted at you, lower lip sticking out in a pout.

“Don’t be a crybaby,” you told him, which only made the pout deepen.

“I’m not a crybaby.”

“Are too.”

“Are not!” He stamped a tiny foot on the ground, eyes squinting, wheels turning. “Fine. But now I’m racing you again!”

He turned and ran from you, tiny feet tearing off down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus ends the longest chapter yet (i believe?). i honestly was surprised by how quickly this poured out of me; usually I'm still writing on saturday and will get to editing on saturday night, let alone having a chapter up and posted on a friday (although rip getting ahead on my homework bc i did not do that, whoops).
> 
> woah...so, there was lots to unpack here (or, at least, i hope there was). thoughts? feelings? immediate, screaming reactions? i want to know in the comments below! i have known this scene was coming for a little while now, so it feels kinda surreal to finally be putting it out there. anyway, i hope you guys had fun with the brief fluff we had this week because we're getting ready to head into ANGST CENTRAL. see you there next week!! ;) 
> 
> if you enjoyed, pls consider leaving a comment or kudos! even if the comment is just you keysmashing, i will appreciate it, i promise. either way though, I LOVE YOU GUYS, and have an awesome week!
> 
> ps- I'm dropping the playlist link for this story again if you are so intrigued. it is updated every week as i write:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ponytails22/playlist/3LFjGQrhBTBbL4FfT6aGP3?si=zpr7c_aCRsG7wszhOLnDtQ


	13. dignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everything's really going to shit

One foot, shaking, stepping, stumbling forward. It had never taken so much effort to walk. Staggering towards the chairs, get to him, just get to him before he died goddammit, you owed him that much. The Pharmacist, his laugh echoing through the warehouse, fleeing. He was gone. On your knees, crawling, then, because the drugs were still addling you too much and crawling was all you could do. Puddles of Blake’s blood stuck to your shins.

He was tied to the chair, head hanging back. Making an awful gasping sound. You reached his ankles, touched his knees, pulling yourself upwards. Blood gushed from his neck.

“Blake.” You pulled yourself up onto his lap. “Blake, please, Blake, look at me.” His gaze slipped off of yours, lips moving wordlessly. “Blake, please, please, don’t do this, don’t do this.” You touched his hands, limp in your own. “Squeeze my hand, come on, come on, squeeze my hand, you got it.” He didn’t move. The gasping noise faltered and stopped. You placed a hand under his head, gingerly, carefully, lifting his face towards yours. His mouth was still open in a half-scream. “Blake, I know you’re there, you need to fight this, okay? Please, please, you’ve got to fight this.” Your own breath, fast and trembling. Compensating for the lack of his. Your hand on his hair, shaking his head, hard, trying to slap him back into consciousness. The movement jostled the metal chair, screeching it along the floor. “Wake up. Wake up, come on, come on, Blake, you can’t leave me without saying goodbye, you can’t leave, you can’t leave me.” The world felt wobbly. Slightly off-kilter. “Blake.” That awful building in your chest- the beginning of a sob. “Come on.” Your next breath, a whimper. You slapped him across the cheek. Hard. Your hand didn’t leave a mark. “Come on!” He didn’t stir.

“Y/N.”

The noise made you jump, whipping around.

Peter, face white, blood chugging sluggishly down the front of his shirt. “Y/N, we have to leave.” Every word seemed to take an enormous amount of effort.

“No.” Your grip tightened on Blake’s shoulders. “I can’t leave him, I can’t leave him, I’ve got to get him help, I did this, I’ve got to-”

“I need you.” He was panting, eyes scrunched tight as he breathed. “I need you to cut me out of these ropes. I can’t get out of them on my own.”

“No, I’m going to fix this, I just need to…” You squeezed Blake’s hand. Your cheeks were wet and sticky. Tears or blood. You didn’t know. “I’m going to fix this.”

“Please.” His voice was a wheezing whisper. The knife stuck out of his sternum.

You walked on wobbly legs towards him. Ground yourself. You needed to ground yourself, because you were dangerously close to spiraling somewhere far far away from this place, where you had never driven here with Blake, where you had never eaten ice cream cake on a rooftop with a boy who held your heart in his hands, where you had never punched a kid in the mouth for beating up Peter. Stay here, you needed to stay here. Peter, in front of you, his eyes screwed up tight. His curls matted and tangled. Shoulders heaving with shaking breaths. Trembling.

“Pull out the knife.”

“What?” The shaking had spread from just your hands, and now your whole body was trembling with some kind of otherworldly vibration.

He opened his eyes to look at you- face pinched in pain, but gaze steady. “You need to pull out the knife.” He paused, panting. “Pull out the knife and use it to cut me out of these ropes. Then we’ll get out of here.”

“No.” Your voice wasn’t your voice anymore. It was someone else. Someone who cried instead of spoke. “No, I won’t do it. I can’t do that.”

He closed his eyes again, grimacing. Blood poured from his chest. “It has to come out. I’ll heal with it inside of me. I can…I can clot quick.”

“Peter.” But you raised a trembling hand to his chest, wrapping fingers around the handle nonetheless. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, whimpering. Every muscle in his neck was tense. Anticipating. “I’m scared, I can’t, I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was steady. Pinched. “Yes, you can. Come on.”

“Peter, no, I can’t, I’m scared, I think Blake’s dead, Peter, I think he stopped breathing.”

He opened his eyes again, boring them into yours. “Listen to me. You are strong. You can do this.”

“No, no,” you couldn’t breathe, chest heaving, like you were the one with a knife in it, “you’re wrong, I can’t, I can’t, I never could, I could never be your sidekick, this was a mistake, it was a mistake, and Blake’s dead.”

Peter’s voice. Your anchor, your rock. “No, you are strong. You are brave. You can do anything. You aren’t a mistake. You’ve never been a mistake. I know you can do this. Come on. Yes, you can.”

“No.”

Blake’s voice, warbling several octaves above Katrina and the Waves as you blasted _Walking on Sunshine_ with the windows down.

“I can’t, I can’t.”

Peter’s hands intertwined with yours under the dinner table. He squeezed once. _I love you_. You squeezed back twice.

“Y/N.”

The way he held you; like you were more precious than the fluffiest blanket on the couch, more precious the last Oreo in the box, than lazy days spent doing nothing at all.

You pulled the knife out.

Peter screamed, and his body made a squelching sound. He slumped forward, wheezing. You stumbled around to the back of his chair, sawing his wrists free so he could fall forward. You caught him before he hit the ground, limp in your arms. His eyes were fluttering again, open and closed, and his gaze was cross-eyed as he looked up, eyes sliding over yours.

“Peter, stay here.” A tear dripped off your chin onto his cheek. “I need you to stay here, okay? I need you to tell me what to do net.” His eyes were sliding shut, and you shook his shoulders, hard. His head rattled loosely in response. You pulled off your shirt and pressed it against the wound on his chest, hard. You were tired of being gentle. You couldn’t be gentle. He moaned beneath your hands. “Peter, I need you, okay, I need help.” The word echoed in the otherwise empty space. “Help.” A shaking whisper. You swallowed. “Help!” It was a croak into nothingness. You took a gigantic, heaving breath. “HELP! HELP! I NEED HELP, PLEASE SOMEONE COME AND HELP ME PLEASE PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”

Your yells echoed through the rafters. Peter’s chest was covered in blood. “I don’t know what to do, Blake, help me, I don’t know what to do.” Whispered. You checked Peter’s pockets for a phone. Nothing. All you had were your web shooters and two boys.

But you had to do something. You couldn’t stay stagnant. The longer you waited, the more Peter deteriorated. The more hope for Blake vanished.

You had to move. You had to be strong.

You pushed yourself to shaking feet. Peter’s chest still sluggishly oozed blood. He was quiet and still under your hands, eyes closed. “We’re going to get out, Peter.” You placed a hand beneath his shoulders and another under his knees, lifting upwards until he was in your arms. A couple steps forward, you could do this. He was heavy, but you could do this. You had to do this.

There had to be a door here somewhere. A way out. Right? The Pharmacist had left somehow. There was a way out. You just didn’t know where. You stumbled blindly towards one end of the warehouse, slipping and sliding under the carpet of pamphlets beneath your feet. There had to be a door up ahead. You would believe there was one there until there was one.

You were almost to one end of the warehouse when something caught your eye and made you pause. FALSE SCIENTISTS HELP STARK REVERSE THE REAPING. You couldn’t read anything the article was about, however, because staring up at you from the picture were your parents.

“What?” A shocked, whispered thing.

Your foot pressed against your mom’s cheek. But your parents were doctors, not scientists. And they had never worked for Stark. It was all some elaborate scheme put on by the Pharmacist. It had to be. Something to unsettle you once he dragged you into his lair.

You shoved your way outside, blinking into the blinding sunlight. Blood rusted its way up your fingers and forearms. Peter was a mess of crimson in your arms. You set him carefully on the concrete before staggering back inside for Blake. You couldn’t carry him, so you dragged him by the armpits back out the door. There was something unsettling about watching his legs rattle limply across the ground. You laid him next to Peter. You didn’t check for a pulse.

The car. It was in front of you, no more than five hundred yards, and you all but ran to it. The tires were slashed. Of course. You screamed in frustration, then screamed again, just in case anyone heard you. Your voice echoed out across the river. Silence.

The web shooters jangled around your wrist.

There was a rusted ladder on the side of the warehouse, leading up to the roof. It would do. You worked more quickly than could have ever imagined. Climb the ladder. One foot, one hand after the other. Clamber onto the roof. Find a good place to weave. Aim the web shooters right this time, goddammit, because this was important, this may very well be your only chance to get someone to see you, this may very well not work at all, but it’s all you’ve got, it’s the last resort, the last hope for Peter.

Finally, you stood back, panting and shaking. _HELP_ , written in webs across the top of the warehouse. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Something a drone or flying object would pick up, at least. It was your only bet. There was no way you could walk anywhere, not carrying both boys. No way you were leaving this godforsaken place on your own.

You climbed down the ladder towards the boys, collapsing back down towards Peter, resuming your compression of his wound. He didn’t stir. You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the concrete wall and pressing down as hard as you dared.

_You said it second, but it didn’t mean anything less._

_He was sitting at his desk; head bent over to scribble at some Calculus problem he left until the last minute to do. The light from a lamp illuminated the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. You reached out to tickle those tiny hairs, feel their down softness, to-_

_“Y/N, you know I know you’re about to tickle me, right?”_

_You froze, hand outstretched towards him still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_He scoffed, erasing something on his page. “You’re impossible.”_

_“I love you.” The words were out of your mouth before you weighed their implications, before you judged whether this was the right time to say it, and if you were ready to tell someone the deep inner workings of your heart, to serve it up on a plate and tell this goofy boy how much of a doofus-shaped hole in your soul you’d have without him._

_And yet, Peter just turned towards you, a soft smile on his face. “I know.”_

You didn’t move until much later, when the sound of metallic whirring filled the air, iron touching down on the concrete in front of you. You weren’t sure how much time had passed; minutes or years.

There was the buzz of a faceplate moving away. “Peter? Jesus fucking Christ, kid. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no, oh no no no, this is not good. :)
> 
> something i've kind of been playing around with in writing is this idea that the reader keeps repeating- that if she could go back in time, she would change everything and undo what has happened, even the good things. hmmm, i just, idk if i believe that. what do you think? is she being truthful- would she really give up everything to "save" herself, peter, and blake from the angst? i almost think she's too selfish (not necessarily in a bad way...? idk). (would you redo something in your life, even if it meant taking away the good things too? i'm not sure if i would).
> 
> anyway, thank you guys SO MUCH for your awesome responses last chapter. i hope to keep keeping you on your toes... ;) no but seriously, y'all made my week. and, whether you comment or not, please know that i'm so grateful you're reading this bc i love sharing it with you! please have an awesome week, and don't worry- angst is just starting :)))))


	14. aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *looks around fearfully* so you're saying it's only gonna get darker from here?

When you were younger, you dreamed in thunderstorms. There was something comforting about the crack of thunder. Justice; delivered sharp and fast. Electric ozone. Lightning. God touching earth. When you closed your eyes, rain would pour over your skin and you would be made whole again.

“Close your eyes.”

Who was speaking? Was it you or God?

The crack of lightning. Justice. Rain pouring down from overhead. Real or fake?

“Yeah, I’ve got a fucking dead kid here, so I’m gonna need some cars and back up.”

Sirens. Rain, pulsing down over your skin. Trailing rivulets down your shoulder, elbow, hand, fingers, where you were gripping Blake’s arm. Lightning. Swift and fast.

Peter made a gurgling noise.

“What was he stabbed with? Did the knife have anything on it? Do you know?”

You reached out and touched his curls. Was this real or fake? Something, a hand, cool and metallic, touching your shoulders.

“Hey. Can you hear me?” He was shifting Peter’s ragdoll shoulders up into his arms.

“Be gentle with him.” The words felt like they rolled off someone else’s numb lips.

Stark’s eyes were hard. Calculating. “I will, I will, I just need-” His gaze fell on Blake’s body, no longer leaking blood. He was all bled out. You still felt Peter pulsing beneath your fingertips. “Jesus, fucking hell.”

“Can you fix him?”

He frowned as if he were unsure who you were referring to. You weren’t sure either. “Yes. Probably. Yes.” He straightened up, Peter’s body hanging limply in his arms. “Listen, I called some people, they’re gonna come pick you up.” You heard the distance squeal of tires on pavement. “Peter comes with me. A car will come take the boy and you to a hospital. Tell ‘em you were attacked by the Pharmacist. Don’t worry about the details, I’ll get someone to come and help you out.”

“No.” You stood so you were matching him; hand reaching out to grab Peter’s. The words were chunky on your lips.

“Yes.” He moved as if you weren’t speaking, and your hands fell away from Peter’s body limply. You couldn’t hold on if you tried. “This is enough shit to deal with by myself. I don’t need extra kids on my hands.”

“No.” You staggered towards him, attempting to follow. “No, I’m coming with you.” He turned away from you, Peter in his arms. “Stop, stop this.” He couldn’t leave you here with Blake still lying on the pavement, looking small and scared and insignificant. “Please.” He didn’t turn, so you did the only thing you could think to do. Flick a wrist towards him so the web landed on Peter’s fingers. His hand lifted towards yours limply. Stark froze. “I said stop.”

“What are you doing?”

“Stop.”

His face was a mask of hidden emotion. “I am stopped.”

Your cheeks were tight with unshed tears. “Then help me. Please.”

***

When you found yourself again, you were wrapped in a blanket, sitting on a couch. Small room, windows dark and shades drawn. You had absolutely no idea where you were, how you had gotten there. Events jiggled at your memory- Blake’s blood fountaining out onto your hands, ripping a knife from Peter’s chest, screaming for help- but you pushed those from your mind. You couldn’t. Couldn’t think of those now. Could only focus on figuring out where you were. Somewhere Stark owned; more memories- Peter at the lab, Peter giggling like he’d won the lottery when he got to spend time designing robots with “fucking Iron-Man!” Stark, selling off all his properties after the war but one. The Avengers Compound.

There was an odd sort of aching in your bones, a stiffness, a tiredness. Rebellion. Your mind was stuffed with cotton; incapable of having thoughts or feelings past simple a to b equations. You needed answers. You knew how to get them.

Rising from the couch, knees and joints ached in protest. The blanket was still draped around your shoulders, and you clasped it to your collarbone with a vicelike grip. Your cape. It would keep you safe. You pushed open the door and padded out into the hallway. The place was large but ghostlike- the curse of a space meant to hold many people that now only held a few. You had no clue where to go. Right or left? Rooms one way, rooms another. Rooms above and below.

You chose left and started walking. At some point, an AI might have asked you where you were going, but you ignored it. You’d walk on alone.

Eventually, you found him. Stumbled into that infamous workshop of his; robotic parts strewn about and holographic displays covering the walls. Some sort of loud metal music was playing. Loud enough you could barely hear your own thoughts. Stark wasn’t tinkering around with anything; he was sitting in a rolling chair, glass of whiskey in hand, swirling the alcohol around contemplatively. He didn’t look up or acknowledge you as you entered, just sipped at the glass.

“FRIDAY told me you might be coming.” Swirl, swirl. “Why don’t you sit down?” He motioned to a rolling chair opposite his own. You didn’t move. Stark let out a long, shaking breath. “Okay.”

“Peter.” The words were out of your mouth before you could think them into existence.

“They lost him twice on the table.” He spoke to the wall. “I have the best goddamn doctors in the world at my beck and call, and they still lost him twice. Healing factor inhibited by the drugs, my ass.”

You waited, body frozen and tense. No way you could ask, no way you could raise those words to your lips. The blanket, clenched to your collarbone.

He finally met your gaze. “He’s alive because of you. He’s sleeping it off now. He’ll be fine.”

The words washed over you. Some distant part of your brain registered this as good news. You nodded, head feeling too heavy on your neck.

He continued swirling the alcohol in his glass. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to spiral into an alcohol induced frenzy of creation and contemplation. I have to come up with a plausible explanation for the extra body we’ve currently got lying around.”

Blake. The thought made you pause, hand on the door. “My parents. Did you know them?”

Something flashed in his eyes. “I don’t even know your name. How would I know your parents?”

Your hand white knuckled the doorknob. “We both know that you keep tabs on Peter. You know exactly who I am.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Touché. Your parent’s names aren’t familiar too me, though.”

“Aren’t they?”

His glass clinked against a table as he set it down. “What is the purpose of all this?”

“You worked with them?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “There are things about this world you don’t want to know, kid. Okay? Just trust me on this one.”

You grabbed a robot part off the nearest workbench and chucked it towards the ground. It bounced dully off the floor. Slightly dented. Stark didn’t flinch. “No. I want to know. I deserve to know.”

“’Deserve’ is a weighty word to toss around.”

The next piece was aimed at his head.

His hand flicked out and caught it. “Don’t throw things. It’s childish.”

Another piece. It was off his head by several feet. “I’ll throw things if I want to. You destroy things. You destroy things and then you walk away from them.”

This caught his attention. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do. You’ve broken so many things and that’s why you’re all alone now, and all you can do is sit around and mope about them.” You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Like Peter.”

He was standing now, suddenly in front of you, eyes blazing. “Take that back.”

“No. Tell me who my parents were. Really.”

Another second and he was deflated, back in his seat, strings cut, shell of a human. “Tell me what you know.”

“They were doctors.”

He shook his head. “They were scientists.”

“How long did they work for you? They started when…when the Reaping happened?”

“No.” He shifted the whiskey glass back and forth across the table.

“No?”

He leveled his gaze with yours. “They’ve worked for me since before you were born.”

“I don’t understand.” Your knees were shaking, and you sunk to the ground, hard. “They were ER doctors. They helped save people.”

“They did help save people.” His voice was fractionally more tender. “They were agents of SHIELD. Specifically focused on Catastrophe Prevention and Reversal.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“When the Reaping happened, they were the ones.”

“The ones who what?”

His eyes were bright, full of emotion. “The ones who told us how to get you back.”

***

“Peter?”

You reached out to touch his curls. He was propped up in a medbay bed, pale and a ghostly sort of grey, but alive and breathing. He shifted slightly under your palm, eyes scrunching further shut for a moment before blinking open. He took several deep breaths, sleeper’s breaths, eyes surveying the room, landing on yours with a bit of understanding.

“Are you really here this time?” you whispered, fingers tracing along his browbone. Brown eyes, following your fingers lazily, frowning. “There’s been a few…” your voice wavered slightly, “false alarms.”

He flinched at this, and you could see in his eyes that he remembered everything that had happened. “Shit,” he mumbled, eyes drifting closed again. With a concerted amount of effort, he shifted over in the bed, so he was positioned entirely on the right side. He blinked his eyes again, opening his arms. “C’mere.”

You climbed into bed beside him, careful not to knock him too hard. He shifted, pulling the blanket up over your chest, and you settled in. His arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into the hollow of his neck. You kicked off your socks, pressing your toes against his calves.

He closed his eyes and hummed. “I missed you doing that.” You felt his gaze searching your face and you closed your eyes, turning your face away from him, pressing your nose into his neck. You felt his hand come up to play with your hair. “It’s okay, Y/N. You can feel it.”

“I don’t feel anything,” you whispered to the freckles on his shoulder, but your cheeks were already impossibly wet and suddenly there was a great heaving sound and someone was sobbing, making some kind of terrible wail, like the kind of cry you heard across battlefields, and his arms were tightening around you, palms pressed against your back, rubbing against your spine. There was snot running down your face, you could see it sticking, gelatinous, from your lips onto his collarbone. Everything felt completely out of control and completely contained to this one place in time; grief you feared you would never escape from.

“Blake’s dead,” you gasped. “B-blake’s dead, and I-I-I killed him.”

“Shhh.” His hands tightened. “I’ve got you.” His fingers massaged the base of your head, and it felt good but nothing should feel good, you should feel bad, you should feel terrible, you killed Blake, you did this to him, you lead him into this and now he was _dead_ , you knew it for certain now, you knew he was dead-

You tried to push back, to free yourself from Peter’s grasp, to spiral further, to cut yourself open and bleed out for Blake’s repentance if need be, but his arms just tightened harder around you. “Don’t leave. You’re okay. Just feel it.”

“No.” You squirmed, but he didn’t let up. “N-no, Peter, you don’t understand, you don’t, you don’t-” You felt hysterical, more out of control than you could ever remember, and it _scared_ you, it scared you so much.

“I do understand.” His voice was level, carefully calm. “I promise. I do. You feel like you’re going to combust. It’s awful.”

You whined, and the pressure in your chest was you getting your face held beneath a firehose with no let-up in sight. Peter shifted slightly, arms still around you, so your hand was in his.

“Squeeze my hand,” he told you, whispered against your hair. You shook your head, but he squeezed your palm. “Come on, you got it.” You twitched your fingers in his. “Harder.” You squeezed. “Come on, hard as you can.”

You squeezed.

Blake screaming that guttural wail.

Blake not having last words. What had been his last words. You couldn’t remember.

Blake, next to you in bed, breath heavy with sleep. Never again.

“There you go.”

You released his hand and it was as if the rest of your body went limp as well, exhausted. Peter kissed your forehead. “Let’s go to sleep.”

“Things won’t be better when we wake up,” you told him, which was stupid, because he already knew that, of course he already knew that.

His fingers traced up and down your back. “Let’s just try.”

You closed your eyes and he shifted again, tucking the blanket so it was tighter around you. You felt his lips trace against your hair once more. “Let’s just try.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for over 2k hits on this story! i am honestly continually surprised and overwhelmed in the best way possible by the awesome community on this site. y'all really are the best.
> 
> this week i wanted to try and handle that initial shock of grief...what it feels like to know your world has been upended but not really ~know~ it's been upended yet, if that makes sense? i also think it is so hard to truly feel your feelings (esp if they're not pleasant ones), which is why the scene with her and peter is so important imo, but also so difficult and certainly not a cure all.
> 
> next week promises SO MUCH ANGST don't worry, we will see the return of our fave babe gwen as well as a lil more exploration into the tony/peter dynamic. also, who knows what y/n is going to do in response to blake's death? plus things have GOT to get weird between her and peter now that blake's gone, right?? right????
> 
> lmk what you liked and what you're excited for in the comments! i love y'all, see ya next week 
> 
> (p.s. sorry these notes are getting so long, but just as an fyi for some reason ao3 messes up the formatting a lot when i do italics, so if an italicized word is ever smushed next to another, it's prob a mistake. i try and catch them, but sometimes it happens. thanks!)


	15. redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i dont think it would be the same without flashbacks" - nedxparker  
> you know...me either

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for brief references of suicidal thoughts in the first section. nothing too heavy, but take care of yourselves, bbs
> 
> **i apologize if you are seeing this chapter again, i originally posted on sunday but someone told me it was being glitchy and showing up weird, so i took it down and am putting it back up!**

Someone was banging on the front door of the apartment.

You were sitting in Peter’s bedroom; an abandoned game of Monopoly between you. The pieces were strewn everywhere, a mess, and the game had been far from riveting. It was a bad day. A bad day in a series of bad days. He was cross-legged before you, wrapped in a giant blue comforter. His hair was mussed, and not in a cute, rumpled sort of way. Instead it was greasy, limp, not-showered in days or weeks. His skin, sallow and grey, a sunken version of his former self. These were how those early days went. Those days after the Reaping was undone.

The banging continued.

Peter reached a hand towards the money bag piece, his fingers trembling.

“Did May get locked out?”

He shook his head. “It’s not May.” A yellow paper bill crinkled in his fist.

A voice, muffled through multiple doors. “Kid? I know you’re in there.”

Peter passed GO and collected two hundred dollars.

“Okay, here are the options. You let me in, or I let myself in.”

Peter rolled. Snake eyes.

The front door banged open. Peter closed his eyes. He placed a hand on the ground and pushed to standing slowly. He swayed; still unsteady on his feet. The blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape. Like a fallen king.

You made to stand beside him, but he waved a hand towards you. “Stay here.” And he set his jaw and opened the door.

You held the dog Monopoly piece in your hand and waited.

“Oh. Nice of you to join us, your majesty.”

You would not wait. You followed him out into the apartment.

Iron Man used to fill up whatever room he was in. Tony Stark, in his current state, took up considerably less space; arms and legs nothing but sinew, hair was iced with grey, wrinkles littering his once flawless complexion. It was his eyes that were the most unnerving, however. They were far from dead inside. It was like he was burning alive.

“You know,” he was saying to Peter, “I gave you a phone for a reason.”

“Because objects replace emotional connection for you?” It was one of those bad days. Venomous tongues.

“Ouch. That hurts.” Stark crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, believe it or not, I gave you the phone because I wanted to have a way to keep up with you. I wanted you to answer when I called.”

“I haven’t left it charged.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Stark pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. Peter remained standing, scrawny and helpless. Like a fearful baby animal, but with that nasty edge to his eyes. Like he would bite if you got too close. “Dammit, kid, I’m trying to help you. I’m trying, okay?”

“I don’t need help.” Straight-backed and proud.

“Like hell you don’t.”

Peter stumbled backwards a step. He wasn’t used to resistance. “You have no clue what I need. You aren’t here. You’ve never been here.”

Stark’s hand tightened around the edge of the table. “I’m sorry I’ve been arranging fucking _funerals_ for the past five months. How do you think it feels to lower Cap into the ground? Nat? You think I enjoyed telling Clint’s kids they aren’t going to have a dad anymore? You think I’ve been sitting on my ass this whole time?” A pause. A breath. “Well?”

Peter’s shoulder twitched. “You haven’t been here.”

“You haven’t answered my calls.”

“I’ve been in my bed with fucking ash pouring out of my mouth!” There was a hiccup, and though you were behind him, you knew how Peter looked now, how his face would be all scrunched up, how his eyes would be bright and teary.

Tony’s tone was concerned. “What are you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t know!” He shifted, wrapping the blanket tighter around his neck. “You wouldn’t get it.”

There was a dull thud; Tony’s fist connecting with the table. “Dammit, Peter, I told you, I’m really trying.”

“Well, you fucking suck at trying.”

The older man’s head tipped back, eyes closed. One hand came up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Point taken. Got it, will try harder in the future, okay? Why don’t we start with right now? Why don’t you tell me why you’ve taken to standing on the top of your apartment building without your suit on? How do you think I feel waking up at 4:30 in the morning to FRIDAY telling me you look like you’re about to jump?”

Ice curdled in your veins. You willed Peter to deny these claims, to assert that he’d _never_ think of doing such a thing, that he’d never been in that head space. But instead his voice was quiet, hurt. “You’re spying on me?”

“I’m looking out for you.”

Peter’s shoulders heaved. “I’m not going to jump. I mean, I don’t, I don’t think I’m going to jump, I just like the air up there.”

“Oh, kid.” The chair scraped back against the wood, and Stark rose, reaching towards Peter, Peter stumbling away. His arms hung in the air, a long sigh. “I want to help you, okay? You’re going to talk to someone, you’re gonna feel, you’re gonna start to feel normal again-”

“I don’t want to feel normal again.” Whispered.

“Yes, you do. You know you do.”

“No.” Peter’s voice wavered and broke. “I don’t want to feel normal, because that would feel like forgetting. I want to remember how it felt, to watch them all die. To know it was my fault. We’re the only ones left now, and it’s my fault.”

“Is that what all this is about?” Stark ran a hand through his hair. “About…about you feeling guilty or something? Because, what you just said is about the furthest from the truth as you can get. Listen to me, seeing everyone…seeing what you saw would mess anyone up, okay? It’s not your fault.”

“I should have killed Thanos.” Peter’s legs wobbled, and then he was sinking to the ground, Tony with his arms around him, supporting him.

“No.” Tony was rubbing his shoulder, but you knew how much Peter hating being touched when he was like this, and of course he was shoving Tony’s hands away, tears glistening in his eyes.

“I should have killed Thanos.” Stronger now. “And I didn’t. I failed, and now Cap’s dead and Bruce is dead and Nat’s dead and Thor and Clint are dead and they’re dead because of me. Because they were trying to save me. And I couldn’t save them.”

“Come here.” Tony had his arms out again.

“No.”

“Peter-”

“No. No. I don’t want to come here.” Peter pushed him away again, less gently than before, and Stark fell backwards. Peter struggled back up to a standing position. “I just want to be alone. I just want to be alone, but nobody ever just lets me be!”

“Maybe because you’re climbing on top of buildings and looking down over the edge.”

A hand, thrown in the air. “So what if I am! It’s not like you care! It’s not like you’d give a fuck if I ended it all!”

This had Tony up off the floor, gripping a hand, knuckles white, on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t say things you know aren’t true.”

“Why would I know anything different? It’s not like you’ve been around to show me otherwise.” He nearly spat the words.

“Peter…” Stark studied his fingers, tight against the fabric of the blanket. “I’m going to do better. I’m going to fix this for you, for both of us.”

Peter shrugged out of his grasp. “I don’t want that.”

Another sigh. “What _do_ you want?”

Peter’s arms crossed in front of his chest. “For you to leave me alone.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Why?” This was a sneer, and you thought about stepping forward, about stopping Peter from saying whatever it was he was going to spit out next, because you were sure he didn’t mean it, but you knew this was his battle, his decision, his bridge to burn. “So I can be your charity case? So you can be my fake dad? So you can atone for the past or break the cycle or whatever?”

“Hey now.” Stark wrapped a hand around the frame of a chair, leaning on it for support. He looked thousands of years old. “Come on.”

“No.” Peter’s voice was doggedly self-destructive. It was like watching a pin press into the red flesh of a balloon. Waiting for the implosion. The pop. “I don’t want to talk to somebody. I don’t want to explain myself to anyone, and I don’t want you to come in here and look at me like I’m some kind of broken animal you’re taking to the shelter. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired. I’m over it.”

“So see, this is where I come in, as the adult, and remind you that I’m not trying to take you to a shelter, I’m trying to take you to a therapist, because you-”

“No.”

“Because you need-”

“No.”

“Because you’re gonna be Spider-Man again one day, and-”

“I’m not.”

He’d caught Stark off guard. “What?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You’re gonna fix all these things, and it’s not going to even matter.” Peter wrapped the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, tried to stand up straighter.

“Oh, kid.” Tony looked like he was about to step towards Peter again but thought better of it. He settled for fiddling with his watch instead. “I know it’s so hard to see this now, but things are going to get better. Things _will_ matter.”

Peter shook his head. Trying to clear water from his ears. “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

Stark’s hands were out, this time like he was approaching a baby deer, or a tiny kitten, or a teenager who had died and gone to war and seen each of his comrades murdered. “It _is_ true. I would know; I’ve lived it, okay? You’re gonna walk this road, and it’s gonna be hard, but you’re gonna walk it, and Spider-Man’s gonna be right at the end waiting for you and-”

“He’s not.”

Stark’s jaw clenched, but there was no malice his voice as he whispered, “Do you have to interrupt me every goddamn time?”

“Well, he’s not.” Peter’s face was tight, holding back tears, but it was angry, oh so angry.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!” Peter’s foot stamped against the ground, and the entire room shook, a bit of drywall falling down from the ceiling. “I do, I do, I fucking do because it’s me! I’m Spider-Man! I’m the only one who knows if he’s coming back! And you don’t know anything, you don’t know anything because I’m tired of journeying, I’m tired of ‘walking the road’ or whatever, I’m tired of never sleeping. I’m over it. I’m OVER IT.” He took a great heaving breath, and suddenly there were tears running from his face, dripping off his cheeks, “And most of all, I’m fucking over you talking to me and I’m over you trying to relate to me because one time you got hurt and I’m over you trying to give me advice because your family died and you weren’t there to save them so now you want to save me!”

SMACK. Peter reeling backwards. Stark’s hand raised. Peter must have sensed the slap coming, must have felt the tension building, but didn’t think the other man would do it. Judging by the look on Stark’s face, he hadn’t known either.

His voice was filled with a low fury. “Don’t you _ever_ say that again.” Peter was silent, eyes full of tears. Stark’s hands clenched into fists, but his head hung in sorrow. “I have given up _everything_ for you, dammit. And I would do it again. I really would. So don’t you ever tell me what I’m trying to do or what I’ve given up to be here. I know exactly what this cost me.”

Peter’s chin jutted out. A petulant child. “I’m never going to get better. I’m never going to put the Spider-Man suit on ever again.”

“So I’ve heard.” Stark turned his heel and stalked towards the door. “You can call me on that uncharged phone the next time you want to tell me how much I don’t care about you.”

Peter dropped the blanket from his shoulders and it pooled in a heap by his feet. His hand twitched, and you imagined him reaching towards the entryway. Asking Stark to stay.

The older man’s hand was on the doorknob, but he closed his eyes, shoulders drooping, and in that moment, there didn’t seem to be a difference between him and Peter, broken king, broken prince. When he spoke next, it was almost too quiet to hear. “I want to fix this. So badly. I want to do right by you. But I need you to help me out a little here, kid.”

There was a moment when you saw it. Peter run into Tony’s arms, which wrapped around him with the strength of a parent, when all that matters is you in their arms and the knowledge that, though you may not know how, everything would turn out alright.

But that isn’t what happened.

Peter crossed his arms tighter across his chest. Stark waited, eyes like a man tied to a stake, burning alive.

Peter said, “Please leave.”

And so, he did. Hands shaking as he turned the doorknob. The entire apartment trembling as the door closed behind him.

***

In the dead of night, he whispered it.

So quiet it didn’t wake you up at first, and instead you blinked into the darkness of bed and boy and wondered what disturbed you at this godforsaken hour of 1:42 a.m.

And then Blake repeated it, turning so he faced you in bed: “What’s wrong? I’m here.”

“What?” Your stomach rolled, trying to process too many things on a brain nowhere near awake.

“You’re okay.” His hand reached over, ghosting across your shoulder, down your arm. “It’s hard. I know.”

You caught his hand in your grasp, brow furrowing in post-sleep muddleness, pressing his fingers against your lips. They tensed on your mouth, pulling back slightly, and you frowned. The hand was larger, fingers longer and leaner than Blake’s. They were cold. There was a freckle on the thumb.

While you were frozen, still in confusion, the hand slipped out of your grasp to brush against your cheek, wiping away tears. Your face felt sticky and hot. “I don’t-” you pushed against the body beside you, and he fell away as you struggled to a sitting position, trying to take stock of your aching limbs, your head, your aching chest.

His voice was quiet, steady. “Do you know where you are?” Hand still out, body angled open, but he didn’t touch you.

Your eyes were attempting to adjust to the night. There was the heavy, sticky feeling of dread. Puffy cheeks and stinging eyes. Your next words, a whisper, “Peter?”

He was watching you solemnly in the dim blue light, eyes concerned. He nodded. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. You took a shaking breath, burying your face down into your knees. Tears leaked out onto your sweatpants, and Peter’s hand rubbed at the spot between your shoulder blades.

“I’m tired of crying all the time,” you told him thickly.

His hand faltered for a moment, and you knew it was because he had once said those exact words to you, while crying. Convinced the pain would never let up. You knew a fraction of that now.

“Let’s go get some food,” he whispered. “Neither of us have eaten in a while.”

You shook your head. “I’m not hungry.”

“I know.” He was intertwining his fingers with yours. “Let’s just see what there is, and then you can decide if you want anything.”

So, you stumbled with him out of the room, down a hallway, into an elevator, back out an elevator, down another hallway. Peter moved with the practiced ease of someone intimately familiar with a space, and you were reminded that, once upon a time, he was as frequent a visitor of this compound as any other Avenger.

He paused, however, at a tall set of double doors, trying their handles to no avail.

“These usually aren’t closed,” he said, frowning towards a keypad with a handprint scanner. “I don’t know why they would be locked.”

“Break-ins after the war.” The new voice made you jump, whipping around to see a disheveled Tony Stark standing in a wrinkled t-shirt and ratty pair of sweatpants. “I took to keeping most doors locked if they weren’t being actively used.”

“Oh.” Peter’s expression was unreadable.

Stark nodded towards the door. “Your hand works on it. By the way.”

“Oh.” He stumbled a step forward, placing his hand against the keypad. It blinked green, and with a _whoosh_ the doors swung open to a gigantic kitchen. There was a large dining room table, big enough to seat twelve or more, and an industrial size fridge, stove, and range. You followed Peter to the counter, and Stark, after contemplating for a few moments, followed behind as well.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he was saying. “You’re supposed to be on bedrest for another day at least.”

There were tiny beads of sweat near Peter’s hairline, and he was white-knuckling the edge of the counter. He scanned the inside of the fridge and cabinets, pulling out a few items and setting them on the counter. “I feel fine.”

“Yeah. You look it.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, assessing the threat. You looked at the food he had pulled out; his favorite flavor of yogurt, that brand of pretzels he ate almost exclusively, the fruit snacks he liked after missions. You looked back at Stark with slightly new eyes.

Peter’s fingers traced the lid of the yogurt container. “I said I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Stark tapped out an erratic rhythm on the counter. “I’ll leave you to it then. Don’t want to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting.” Peter’s body was still held so tight, tight as a spring, but his eyes were pleading.

Stark didn’t look up. “Yes. I was. Check the freezer if you want. I’ll be in the lab.”

He was gone.

You sat down at a barstool woodenly, and Peter pushed some pretzels your way. You ate them woodenly as he watched, shewing and swallowing mechanically. There was a rustling, and you saw him dip into the freezer, emerging with a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. It sat on the counter with a frozen sort of thump, and he nosed around in several of the cabinets, opening and closing drawers, muttering, “I don’t understand why the spoons aren’t just in the drawer here. It’s like he’s hiding them somewhere.”

“The spoons are to your left, Peter,” a voice from the ceiling told him, and you both nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Oh.” His face was pale, but he pulled open the drawer and emerged with two spoons nonetheless. “Right. Thanks, FRIDAY.”

“Of course.” The voice paused for a moment. “Would you like me to ask Mr. Stark to come eat the ice cream with you? I know you enjoy doing that together.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed a splotchy pink. “No, um, that’s- that’s okay.”

“All right.”

Peter pushed the open ice cream container and spoons across the counter before sitting beside you at a barstool. He was breathing hard.

You scraped at the top layer with the spoon. “I need to call Gwen. She…” your voice wavered, “she deserves to know.”

“Mmm.” He shoveled an ungodly amount of ice cream into his mouth. “Are you ready for that?”

You shrugged. The ice cream dissolved, pure sugar, on your tongue.

He shifted slightly on his seat, “Maybe it-”

“It can’t wait.”

He pressed his lips together, looking at you tightly. You both knew you were right. Gingerly, he got back up from the barstool and walked to the counter, pulling a phone out of a drawer. “Tony will come up with something, you know.” He sat back down, pushing the phone towards you. “About how all this happened. His people will fabricate some story about how you and Blake were taken by the Pharmacist-”

“And they’ll leave you carefully out of it?” you guessed.

He nodded. “You won’t even have to testify or anything. It’ll all be taken care of.”

You touched the phone’s glass screen- cool and unfeeling. “So, you don’t want me to tell Gwen the truth?”

“You can tell her whatever you need.” And Peter’s eyes were sincere, trusting, despite it all. Though he was giving you permission to sell out Spider-Man once more. Gwen would never tell anyone, but it was still a risk- one more person out in the world who knew his secret. He squeezed your hand, though, and he didn’t seem concerned about the potential for danger at all. “I just want…I don’t want you to worry about telling everyone. Tony will take care of it.”

Blake’s parents, you realized numbly. The thought of telling them their son was dead made bile rise in your throat.

“Okay.” You swallowed. “Okay, we’ll cross those bridges when we come to them. But I think…no, I know I need to tell Gwen.”

“Then let’s call her.”

You nodded. Your fingers didn’t move from how they were clutching the phone.

“Y/N?”

You couldn’t call. You needed to call. What would you say? How could you say it?

Peter gently pried the phone from your fingers. His voice was low. “Do you…”

You nodded before he even finished, and he pulled up the call screen. You told him the number, watched him press call. The dial tone echoed hollowly around the room. For an awful second, you were afraid she wasn’t going to pick up. Then-

“Hello?”

“Gwen?” Hearing her voice started a fresh wave of tears. Hearing her was proof there was an outside world. A world that didn’t revolve around superheroes and their villains.

“Y/N? Is that you?” Her voice sounded breathless, exhausted. “Dammit, I’ve been scared out of my mind! You can’t just disappear off the grid and not tell me where you’re going to be for a day and expect me not to worry. I was calling everyone left and right trying to figure out what had happened, but I couldn’t get a hold of Blake either-”

“Gwen.”

She paused. “What?”

How could you summon these words to your lips? Peter put his hand on your shoulder, but you stood up, out of his grasp. Somehow it felt wrong, being comforted by him. You had cheated on Blake with him. You had cheated on Blake, and now Blake was dead. You had never gotten the chance to right your wrongs. And you never would. And now-

“I have something I need to tell you,” you said, thickly. “You might want to be sitting down.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you don't set out to write a irondad/spiderson-centric chapter but it ends up being a irondad/spiderson-centric chapter bc that's just what happens and i hope that's okay ;) no, but don't worry, if you liked that whole drama, there's more of that to come, as well as peter/reader angst bc we all kNOW those kids can't keep it together (or maybe they eventually will be able to? who knows, guess we'll just have to keep going to find out!). (and also more gwen of course i love my girlie she's def coming back).
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading and for leaving a comment if you feel so inclined. like, seriously, i love reading and responding to them all- definitely the highlights of my day. that being said, of course, if you are reading the lengthy authors note, pls know you are loved and appreciated and you're going to crush this week! 
> 
> (also, if you're still with me at the bottom here and feel like answering a question, how did you find this fic? I'm just super curious as to how ppl stumble across my work, so if you feel like sharing, pls lmk!)


	16. practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> previously on 'wanderer:' blake died, unresolved sexual tension, and peter parker is a puppy dog

Peter held your hand too tight through the whole funeral. It hurt. You were sure your bones were stress fracturing, bending beneath the pressure, but it felt good in some twisted way. Beautifully sad. Maybe that was everyone’s purpose in life; to make it all beautifully sad.

His mother. The casket. The crying. The guilt.

You didn’t listen to any of the words being spoken. You imagined nights spent crying, mascara tracing black tears down cheeks, hair pulled into a messy bun. Big oversized sweatshirts. You’d cry and scream at the appropriate times. It was all tragic. It was all beautiful.

 

_“You’re beautiful.”_

_He blurted it out on the train home, just as you were stepping off at the station. Your fingers, intertwined; palms mixing nervous sweat. This thing between you was new and fresh and nerve-wracking but oh so exciting._

_“Can I kiss you again?” It was a day of confessions. Of words rushed before second thoughts._

_He blinked towards you, blushing, freckles dancing in the golden light of the afternoon. “Sure.”_

_You leaned forwards to press your lips against his own. Your faces touched. Pulled away. There was a long pause._

_He giggled._

_“Okay.” You wiped some of the sweat from your palm off onto your jeans._

_Peter giggled again. “That was super awkward.”_

_“Damn. I didn’t know there was so much technique to this.”_

_He shrugged, picking up your hands again to swing them in his own. “We can fix it.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Practice.” Though his tone was deadly serious, he couldn’t keep the light from dancing in his eyes as he turned back to you. “Hours and hours of serious, dedicated, practice.”_

 

None of it was beautiful.

“How many days has it been?”

Gwen didn’t look away from the mumbling TV. “Three.” She dug her hand deeper into the popcorn bowl and threw some kernels your direction. They bounced off your forehead and onto the carpet.

Had she meant three hours, days, or years? Time stopped moving in the way it used to. Any of the three were plausible. “Oh. Okay.”

She pulled blankets tighter around your shoulders, tucking your hair, mussed and greasy, back out of your face. “When are you going to let Peter back over?”

“Who says I’m not letting him over?”

She raised an eyebrow, wrapping both hands around a steaming mug. Her eyes were still trained on the TV. “Come on. You two were practically attached at the hip. I think he could help you.”

A plate of chicken and green beans sat on the coffee table in front of you, untouched. It wasn’t that you weren’t eating. You just hadn’t tasted anything in days. Your clothes fit kind of weird. Not like you gained or lost weight, but more like you inherently changed shape. Like you were deformed, but you had yet to discover where. It was the opposite of beautifully sad. You didn’t even look sad, but you had these big sunken eyes and chapped lips because you couldn’t bring yourself to buy another chapstick.

“Is it because you feel guilty?” The words were quiet. Gwen’s face, nervous, but steeled. Determined.

Something twisted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She picked at a piece of popcorn. You could watch her choose her words carefully. “Because of you and Peter.”

Your fist clenched. Hard around the blanket. “What about me and Peter?”

 

_You practiced._

_There were lots of failures. You’d come home from school and disappear, snickering, into his room, sure you were fooling Aunt May with your giggling whispers about how you just had tons of homework. (Looking back, you were absolutely sure she knew exactly what you were up to). You’d flop overtop Peter or he’d fumble with your bra clasp and you learned how two bodies moved together._

_He giggled as you kissed his neck and you pulled back, feeling stupid, blushing._

_“No, no.” He ran a hand through your hair. “I liked it.”_

_A sinking pit dropped through your stomach. “I’m not very good at this.”_

_His fingers tightened around your hip. “We’re great at this. You’re great at this.”_

_“I know. I’ve just…I’ve never kissed someone like this before. I’ve never kissed someone at all.”_

_He shrugged. “Me either.” He took your hand and pressed it against his lips. You hooked a finger into his mouth, felt him twitch in response. He shoved you backwards, so he was hovering over top of you, mouth near your jaw. “That’s why we’re practicing.” His tongue traced a line from your ear to your collarbone. “My turn.”_

You ignored Peter’s calls.

You weren’t sure why. Deep down, some part of you knew you needed him. Some part of you hated yourself for that. Some part of you unwound the entire sticky threat, unwound Blake feeling the need to follow you to the Pharmacist’s lair, unwound Blake questioning you in beds at night, unwound Peter’s return, so it was just you and him, him and you.

Peter texted, “I’m here. When you want to talk.”

 

_You found them while hunting for a pencil beneath his bed._

_“What are these?” You tried to ignore how your hands were shaking._

_He glowed red, snatching the box from your hands. “They’re nothing.”_

_“Is there something you want to tell me?” your voice took on a teasing lilt. “Some other special girl or guy in your life?” Because you certainly hadn’t been using these together. You didn’t even know how to put on a condom. Hazy memories of sex ed and bananas flashed through your mind._

_He rolled his eyes. “Yes, you caught me. Penis Parker, getting it on the regular.” He set the box on the desk. It stared back at you. “Actually, uh, May got them for me. For. Us.”_

_“What?”_

_He shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah. I know. They were on my bed the other day, and she just told me she wanted us to be safe, and if I had any questions I could ask her, and”_

_“If you had any questions?” You spluttered out a laugh._

_He giggled. “I know. It was weird. I mean it was May, giving me condoms. It was weird.”_

_You were both silent, looking at the box. “We could…”_

_“We don’t have to.” His response was swift, immediate._

_“I know.”_

_He leaned forward to peck your nose, your eyelids, the corners of your lips. “Let’s just stick to this for now. We’re getting so good at it.”_

Someone tapped at your window.

It startled you awake, but you stayed in bed, legs like concrete. There was an odd sort of aching emptiness inside of you; mawing big and black. It was heavy, sitting in your stomach like an anchor. You couldn’t leave your bed. He opened the window anyway; you’d left it unlocked.

Sweatpanted feet padded along your floor. Whispered. “Are you asleep?”

“What do you think?”

He traced a toe along your carpet. “Sorry.”

You shifted in your blankets, trying to roll back over onto your side. Away from his searching gaze.

“It’s seven at night. You shouldn’t be asleep.”

You looked over your shoulder to glare at him. “Oh, really? You’re one to talk about these sorts of things.”

He flushed. “Touché.” His weight shifted from side to side, and you watched him lazily, wanting to reach out a hand and pull him down into your comforter with you, never to reemerge. “You shouldn’t leave your window open like that.”

“That’s how I like to leave it.” Your hand tugged the blankets back up, tighter around your shoulders. “Can you leave me alone? I’m tired.”

You didn’t want him to leave. He didn’t.

“Y/N.” Your bed dipped as he sat on the corner. “I’m not letting you do this to yourself.”

You snorted. “What? Grieve? I’m not allowed to do that?”

He drew a long breath; in through his nose, out through his mouth. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, then, I don’t know what you mean.”

A hand wrapped around your ankle, fingers tickling your calf. Your pulse pounded against his thumb. “You can’t do this. I won’t let you. You have to feel.”

You were silent, foot flexed under his hand.

He trembled, slightly. “I know it’s hard. But you can’t…you can’t let go of everything. It hurts, and it won’t hurt forever, but you have to feel it. Even when it feels like it’s too much.”

You pressed your face into your wrists. “It is too much.”

“I know.”

Funerals, caskets, failing classes, telling Blake’s parents. Your bed, the covers, not showering for days. How long had you been here? Years? Minutes? How long since Blake’s blood had coated your wrists, your palms, the grooves that made up your fingerprints?

“How did you do it?” you asked, whispering against the hem of the blanket. “How have you done it all these years? You’ve seen…you’ve seen so many people…”

“Die.” Peter’s hand was cool around your ankle. “Yeah. I didn’t deal with it very well, remember?”

You huffed a laugh.

His voice was quiet, contemplative. “I tried to stop it all. That didn’t work. I realize that now. Fixing it? That’s another hurdle. But I know I have to feel it. Even if it’s awful. Even if it’s too much. Otherwise it’ll be too much forever.”

You couldn’t look at him.

You felt his weight shift off your bed. “Come on.”

“What?”

“We’re going somewhere.”

You looked at him, holding a hand out towards you. “Where?”

He interlocked your fingers. “Somewhere with fresh air. Here,” he tossed a sweatshirt towards you, “dress warm.”

You threw some more layers of clothing on, trying to ignore how he was wearing the sweatshirt you’d given him, how you were sure he’d worn it just because he knew you liked him in it, and then he was tugging you through the apartment, out into the ink black night. Well, no, it wasn’t entirely black, because this was the city that never slept, and there were thousands of people out in the streetlights, hustling about to their lives. That woman, maybe her son died, maybe she knew how you felt. Or maybe she just forgot to pick up eggs at the store.

Peter took you to the top of a hill overlooking part of the city. You breathed out, and your breath fogged like a dragon into the chilly air. His arms were around you, crinkling as winter jackets shuffled against each other. The city hummed with glorious energy, lights buzzing about, this way and that, but this place was quiet, serene. A lone oak tree, a hill, and Peter, his face illuminated with a kind of orange glow, and for some reason he looked like he did when you were in high school. Fresh faced and freckled. Soft chin, soft eyes. He wasn’t as childish-looking now. But he didn’t look ten years older either. His jaw wasn’t clenched so hard.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked, face full of the glorious childlike wonder you loved so dearly.

“Yes,” you agreed, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your hair and you exhaled for the first time in days. His hand traced circles up and down your back, and his lips pulled away from your hair, but you knew, you knew you wanted it back.

“Peter?”

“What?” He looked down towards you, pink lips, cold nose, tender heart.

You kissed him.

There was a moment when he was still against you and you realized you had shattered everything, numb lips against chapped cheeks, Peter’s, unmoving before you, before a hand came up to wrap around your neck, pulling you closer. He melted beneath you. You knew his lips better than you knew your own, knew how his jaw felt beneath your teeth, knew how to tug on his ear and kiss his freckles, knew the warmth between your mouths, familiar as breath.

Shoving him backwards onto the ground, you pressed kisses against his neck, working your way down to his collarbone, ripping zippers and layers away so you could _feel_ , so you could feel him, touch him the way you had been longing to for so long. His hands trembled as they ran through your hair, and his body shifted against yours like a dance you’d just remembered but he’d never forgotten. Swinging a leg over his chest, you straddled his hips, grinding into him, pushing his beanie off his head because you needed to tangle fingers in his curls. His teeth found your lip.

“You’ve been practicing without me.”

“You think?” He was distracted, fumbling with the buttons of your shirt.

You moved to help him. “Sure. I mean you’re still shit at the buttons, Parker, but we can work with that. It’s really the teeth game I’m jealous of. You didn’t learn that from me.”

His free hand met where yours was dancing with the waistband of his jeans. “And you didn’t learn _this_ from _me_.”

You froze.

“Y/N?”

You sat up, pushing him away. Head swirling.

“Oh.” His eyes were wide. “I…I didn’t.”

Blake. Blake. Blake.

“Hey, hey,” he was scrambling out from under you, grasping for your hands. You let him take them. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay.” You felt nothing. You felt nothing. Don’t think about it. Don’t you dare think about it.

“No, no, it’s not.” He was running a hand through his curls, pulling at his hair. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

You messed with the zipper to your jacket, pulling it jaggedly back up to your neck. “It’s fine.”

He looked like he was about to cry. Beanie clenched in his hand.

You couldn’t look at him, or you would cry too. And he wasn’t allowed to see that right now. “Please just take me home.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh i've been waiting for this moment, y'all. i've been waiting for them to kiss.
> 
> also, im back! thanks for sticking with me; life got crazy and i think i just needed a few weeks off to rejuvenate, but chapters should be consistently back now! 
> 
> kudos/comment if you feel so inclined- they really keep me inspired! of course, either way, i love y'all and hope you continue getting through school/life, and for all my fellow americans, have the happiest of thanksgivings this week! i'm thankful for each and every one of my readers <3


	17. end game

No one spoke the entire way back to the apartment.

The kind of oppressive silence that sinks and weighs and keeps mouths closed and lips pressed white together. You clenched your hands into fists and tried not to tremble, tried not to cry.

You couldn’t help but look at Peter. You didn’t want to, you didn’t want to, but you did anyway, caught glimpses of him in-between the flashes from the streetlights, face illuminated gold and yellow. Harsh fluorescents glaring pale against his cheeks. He looked scared. Like he was trembling, though he was still as a stone. Humming with some kind of energy.

You closed your eyes, pressing forehead against closed fists. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. You didn’t want this. Peter’s car slowed to a stop outside your building.

You didn’t move for a long time, and eventually you felt him shift, turn to look at you. His voice was timid and not his own. “Do you…want me to come in?”

“No.” You said it too fast, and he flinched. You squeezed your eyes shut. “No, I mean, that’s not how I meant it. I just…this isn’t your fault, okay?”

He was shattered, you had broken him. “Okay.”

Gwen was white-faced as you entered the apartment.

“Where have you been?” She slammed her phone down on the counter with a shaking fist. “You would think, after all that’s happened, you would care to give your best friend a text saying you were running off and gallivanting around without telling me.” She white-knuckled a steaming mug of tea. “You left me alone with just my thoughts, and let me tell you, my thoughts were not imagining situations in which you came back in one piece and,” she paused, taking in your expression. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, still feeling wobbly, still knowing if you opened your mouth the truth would come out and you weren’t sure if you were ready for the truth yet.

“Y/N.” She came over, wrapping a hand around your own and sitting you down on the couch. Her mug clinked against the wood of the coffee table. “Come on, we’re talking to each other, remember? We’re sharing things.”

“I cheated on Blake.”

“What?” She shifted, sucking in a breath. Though she still held your arm in her hand, she was squinting, as if trying to see you more clearly. “When?”

You shook your head. “He asked me. Blake did.” Your voice was doing the thing where it got wobbly against your will. “A few weeks ago. Asked me if I was cheating on him with Peter.” His name hurt you to say. To wrap the P around your lips. Pop it outwards. “I told him no, but I think I was lying.”

“You…think?”

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I just…I thought I could have it both. I thought I could have both of them, hold both of them in my hands at the same time. But I just broke both of them instead.”

“That’s not true.” But her voice didn’t sound certain.

You looked her in the eyes, hard. “Did you know?”

She was still, unwilling to meet your gaze. But she was wholly Gwen, wholly truthful when she looked at you and nodded. You watched her pick her next words carefully. “Y/N, what you had, what you _have_ with Peter…it’s something special.”

The words twisted something inside of you. “Don’t say that.”

“No, it is something special, and you didn’t have the same thing with Blake.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No,” her voice was gentle, but firm, “you didn’t. What you had with Blake was special and it was magical, but you didn’t fit together, and you fought, and everyone with eyes knew you were going to break up in a few months because he refused to see you for who you truly were and-”

“Stop.”

“No. Listen to me. Blake was a good person, Y/N, but just because he’s dead and it sucks and it’s not goddamn fair doesn’t mean we should glorify what happened and pretend you were about to get married.”

“You don’t understand.”

She whistled out a breath through her nose. “What is there not to understand? You made a mistake. You fell in love with a guy while you were still in love with another. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“No, you don’t understand.” You hurried to wipe at your eyes, to smush out any stray tears. “You don’t understand, I lied to him. I lied to Blake, and I told him there was nothing between us and I knew there was but I didn’t know because I couldn’t look and I couldn’t see it for what it truly was and I _lied_ to him and then I kissed Peter and it was wonderful and magical and I just know I’m cheating on him, I know I’m cheating on him.”

Gwen’s voice was gentle, “Blake is dead, Y/N.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“No,” her voice was still as soft, “I don’t think you do. Because Blake is _dead_. He’s not coming back to haunt to haunt you or judge you or berate the fact you had feelings for someone else.”

“He’s dead because of me.”

A hint of anger. “No, he’s dead. He’s dead because some maniac killed him. He’s dead because he put himself in danger. He’s dead because there is some force greater than us in the universe tying us to this place, and that string got cut and Blake was untethered. That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

She squeezed your hands. “You need to forgive yourself.”

“I need Blake to forgive me.”

“Blake can’t forgive you.” She stared down into the steam from her mug. “Blake won’t be saying any words for a very long time, so you’re the only person with that power now.”

She was quiet for a long time. You reached out and held onto her tea until it burned your hands.

“You need to forgive Peter too.”

“What?”

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You blame him. Some part of you blames him for all of this.” Her eyes searched yours. “We both know it’s true. And we both know you aren’t going to move past this until you do.”

You sighed a deep, bone-rattling sigh. “How do I do that?”

She gave you a small smile. “That, my dear, is something you have to figure out on your own.”

***

You stood outside of Peter’s door for too long.

You couldn’t raise a hand to knock, even though you wanted to. Couldn’t force your fingers to form that familiar fist, to pound against the wood, to strike against the frame, to make a movement. It was scary; knowing the slightest twitch of your fingers would send ripples vibrating through the entirety of the pond. You couldn’t do it.

The door opened before you.

Peter, disheveled and cold looking. “I didn’t know if you were ever going to knock,” he said by way of greeting. “It was making me antsy.”

You twisted the hem of your sweatshirt. “Can I come in?”

“Is that a good idea?”

You were honest. “No.”

He melted, stepping backwards, away from the frame, so you could follow him inside.

His apartment looked different than the last time. You noticed things, different things, then when you had rushed in here, scared, caring for him crammed up next to the toilet seat. Noticed the fish tank quietly bubbling away in the corner, noticed the bookshelf in the corner stuffed full of shitty sci-fi and romance novels, noticed the picture pasted on the fridge with magnets, one of you and Peter and Ned on a rollercoaster, smiling and screaming, only twelve years old.

“Do you want something to eat?” Peter was rifling through his cabinets, maybe for something to do, but you just wanted him to sit, just wanted him to focus the nervous energy for once in his life.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

He continued rifling through the cabinets, producing an apple, which he didn’t show any signs of eating.

“Peter, we need to talk.”

“Okay.” He was nodding and looking as though he was mourning something not yet dead. “Okay. Let’s sit.”

You perched on one end of the couch, him on the other. There were miles between you.

You sighed a shaking breath. “I’m sorry.”

He was hard, uncharacteristically unreadable. He balanced the apple in his palm as if its weight was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry for all of this. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.”

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “Some of it was my fault. And some of it was yours as well.” His voice was low, careful. “There’ s no point in blame. I just…” he trailed off, eyes finding the apple again. “I don’t know how we go forward.”

You shifted on the couch. “We need each other in our lives. That much is obvious.”

“We don’t just need each other in our lives.” His smile was rueful, and his hand twitched to grab your ankle as he had before. You ignored the electric shock zipping up your body at his touch. “That much is obvious.”

You didn’t move his hand away.

His smile faded, and his thumb rubbed along the bone of your ankle before pulling away. “Maybe there’s only one path for us.”

“What do you mean?” You frowned, wanting to reach back towards him. “We were doing so well. It wasn’t easy, but we were rebuilding, we were reconnecting.”

“That’s what I mean.” He squeezed his apple so hard it squeaked and cracked. His eyes found yours, a tortured man. “I love you.” He trembled slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever stopped.”

You stilled. “What?”

 His fingers flexed, reaching towards you, inches away. “You stopped. You loved Blake, and you stopped loving me, and that’s okay. But we’re meant to love each other. I don’t…I don’t know how else to describe how _right_ you feel to me. And that’s what I mean, there’s only one path for us. I don’t think we can be friends. That’s not what feels right to me.”

“Peter.” Your voice was shaking, and you grabbed for his fingers. You pulled them away.

“But I get it. You stopped. And now things are more complicated. We’re older, and you’re a little fucked up, and I’ve been fucked up for a least twice as long, and even though we’re meant to be together, it’s not that simple.” He was shaking all over now, and his eyes were sparkling with tears. “I finally get it. I’ve made peace with us. I’ve made my amends. And I…I can walk away, if that’s what you want. If that’s what you need.”

You didn’t know what to say. You never knew what to say. Something _popped_ in the back of your head, and warm iron stained your lips.

Peter frowned. “Your nose is bleeding.”

You made to get up, but he was quicker, passing you a wad of toilet paper. You pressed it against your nose, pinching sticky fingers against the flow.

He was rifling around in his freezer, looking concerned. He tossed an ice pack your way. “You didn’t used to get nosebleeds this often, right?”

You shook your head.

“You should tilt your head forward.”

There was a choice to be made. He had laid it out for you. Peter or no Peter. Impossibly easy on some level. But on another…to choose between the great unknown and the emptiness you knew so well. Then again, it wasn’t really a choice. It never had been.

“I neber stobbed.”

“What?” He turned towards the couch, and you took the tissue away from your nose, ignoring the sluggish trail of blood, not willing to lose your sudden confidence.

“You said I stopped loving you and that’s not true. I never stopped.”

He seemed to freeze, taking mechanical steps back to the couch, sitting down and taking the tissue from your hands. He wiped a bit of blood off your lips, but you stopped his hand from doing more.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, I love you more than you could ever know. I love the way you have your stupid accent when you say ‘park’ and I love the freckle on your neck I like to kiss and I love the kindest most gentle soul I’ve ever met. And I can’t promise I’ll be any good at all the rest of this. I can’t promise I won’t fuck it up in a million and one ways, I can’t-”

“I don’t care.” And he was kissing you. And it was like he had never kissed you before, there was something needy in his lips, tender and passionate. Like he knew it was all delicate, but that made him love it all the more. “I don’t care,” he peppered kisses down your jaw, “I don’t care,” down your neck, “I don’t care,” down your chest. He paused, and your blood was on his lips, smeared along his chin. “This is what matters to me.”

You saw a million reasons, a million ways this could go wrong, could backfire, could leave you hurting worse than before. You saw a million and one ways this could shatter Peter, could leave him trembling and alone. You saw one boy, sitting before you, soft and perfect and whole. You kissed him back anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :,,,,) i'm so proud of my beautiful children.
> 
> ngl a small part of me was like, "i could just end it here and everything would be happy!" but of course, that's not what we have in store. that being said, we are headed into the #endgame of this fic; i'm not quite sure how many chapters are left, but don't worry, things will get messy and bloody once more. (there will be fluff too tho, i promise. fluff is to come. we all need some fluff).
> 
> as always, i hope you all are doing well, and feel free to drop me a comment of what you thought (comments FUEL me). <3


	18. morning

You woke up with a sleeper’s confusion, blinking into an unfamiliar room, unfamiliar bed, familiar boy. Bleary morning light trickled in from the window as if strained through a sieve; the room was barely illuminated. There was a long moment where you took stock of everything; your legs, your fingers, your heart thump-thumping in your chest. Peter’s chin nestled into the hollow of your chest, his lips tickling the base of your neck where it curved into shoulder. His arm was hooked around you loosely, leg thrown over the top of your body, effectively pinning you against the bed.

You reached up, cradling his head more tightly against your body, twisting your fingers into his curls, leaning your forehead down to rest against his own. He shifted, mumbling slightly, lips vibrating against your collarbone.

His eyes blinked lazily open, and you felt bad for waking him. He let out a long sigh before shifting around, yawning. “Hey,” his voice was gravelly.

“Hey,” you whispered, quiet, like you were both still asleep.

“Mmmm.” He closed his eyes again, rolling his head from side to side. “Wha’ time izzit?”

His chest rose and fell, breath evening back out. You moved your hand from his curls to his forehead, fingers dancing along closed eyes. “Early.”

Another deep breath. He rolled back over towards you, nuzzling his face against your chest. “Then we should go back to bed.”

“Okay.” You weren’t sure what had awoken you in the first place, but in that moment you felt an orange glow of warmth, of happiness, sweep over. “Okay, let’s go back to bed.”

And you did.

 ***

Something pulsed against your face. You reached up to the warmth, unsurprised when your fingers came back bloody. Daylight more steadily streamed through the blinds on the window. You untangled from the mess of Peter and covers as quickly as you could, stumbling into his bathroom and grabbing some toilet paper.

You hopped back under the covers, one hand holding the tissue to your face, the other pulling the blankets back around your shoulders. Peter was rubbing a hand over his eyes, making the first noises of morning.

He groaned and then stretched upwards, hands clacking against the headboard.

“Sleep well?” you teased, reaching a hand out to tickle along his jaw.

He flinched away, grumbling an annoyed noise. A hand clumsily pushed you away, and he stared at you with squinted eyes.

You smiled. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

“I know.”

You rolled your eyes. “Impossible.”

“It’s part of my charm.” He frowned when he opened his eyes, finding your bloody tissue. His voice dropped quieter, and he reached up, fingers twitching towards the paper. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You shoved his fingers away, wiping more aggressively at your nose. It usually would have dried up by this point, but it was still steadily chugging blood. “It’s probably the change in weather.”

“No, it’s not.” He pushed himself up on one elbow, scrutinizing you more closely. “Right? You know it’s not.”

“Grief has odd effects on the body.” Because it was true; since Blake had died you had ached and pulsed and been lost for energy and had bled out your nose. “That’s all.”

“Mmmm.” He reached out, brushing hair off your forehead to press his palm against it.

You caught his wrist in your hand, bringing it down to press against your lips. “I love you.”

He softened, ever so slightly. “I love you.”

“What are we getting up to today, then?”

“I don’t know.” He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “What do you want to get up to?”

Some part of you, and not an insignificant part, wanted to tell him to tell him all you wished to do was pour obsessively over the notes on the Pharmacist, figure how to lure him in, how you would capture him, how you would make him suffer. But some other part, and not an insignificant part, whispered that the orb you were holding in your hands, this soap of happiness, this morning with Peter, wouldn’t last for forever. It might not even last a day. “I don’t know.”

His face twitched; a sad smile. “You want to do research, don’t you?”

“No,” you lied, but the words rang out false, even to your ears. “Well, yes. Kind of. Yes.”

“It’s okay, Bug.”

“No, I want…I want to do something with you. I want to spend time with you.”

“Okay.” His smiled widened. “Let’s do something then, we can research another time. The best of both worlds.” He twirled your fingers through his own unconsciously, but you saw his eyes flicker to the Spider-Man suit that lay in the corner of the room. It hadn’t moved since the last time you’d seen it.

“We could go stand at the top of a very tall building.”

He laughed, but then his face smoothed into something serious. “I want to do something…normal. I want something normal people would do.”

“We could go find somewhere super inappropriate to have sex.”

He snorted, rubbing a hand over his face. “You are so not being helpful right now. The opposite of helpful, actually.”

“Whatever. You’re the one who turned that down, just remember.”

He shook his head. “You’re impossible. Let’s just go recklessly spend a bunch of money or something.”

You laughed. “Okay, works for me, Parker. I’ll follow you.”

Getting ready with Peter was as familiar as taking in breath. You made to roll from bed, but he grabbed your hand, pulling you back down for a kiss.

“I’ll make you breakfast. What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

His face lit up with that familiar magic, weight shifting from the bed as he rolled his way towards the kitchen. He was shirtless, in nothing but a pair of plaid pajama pants. You followed the hard muscle of his shoulder down to the curve of his spine, down to where it dipped and dimpled at the small of his back, tail bone disappearing down into the pj bottoms. There was a freckle of constellations speckling his shoulders. If you had the time, you would kiss each one of them individually, cover his body with your lips until you were sure you owned every inch of him again.

If he felt you watching, if he sensed your eyes, he didn’t say anything. Just mussed a tired hand over his face, into his hair, whistling slightly as he pulled open the fridge. These were your favorite, tender moments. The time in which you were able to see him at his softest, most vulnerable and unawares. When he was incredibly and unequivocally himself.

A short list of all the things you loved about Peter Parker: His jawbone, the muscle that twitched there. You wanted to run it through with your teeth. See how it felt when it moved and clenched beneath your tongue. His eyelashes, long and fairy-like. They framed his eyes like does. More beautiful than yours, even before mascara. More delicate, fragile. His cupids bow; the way his nose dipped into his full lips. The crevice there. The hollow of his neck, how you could lick it and he would shiver and come alive. His shoulders, dappled here in the morning light pouring steadily in through the blinds. The shadows cut dark stripes over his chest, moving and dancing as he cracked eggs over the stove. You loved the rippling of his abs. You unabashedly loved the rippling of his abs. You remembered the day he got ripped, how he had gone from scrawny boy to scrawny boy with inexplicable seventeen-pack in t-minus two days. Those early days, back when he was scared and wide-eyed and totally terrified of what was happening to him. When he turned into a bundle of trembling muscle.

You loved his hands most of all. There was something so incredibly hard and masculine in the way they knotted and curved. They were big and his knuckles were big but soft and you wanted to put each of them in your mouth and bite down. You wanted to consume him. In the least creepy way possible.

He looked up, catching your eyes as you watched him from the bed, and his smile told you he knew. And he didn’t care. He just turned back away from you, shoulder curving beautifully as he grabbed a spatula from a drawer.

You got up, finally, padding your way over to the bathroom, taking in your appearance. You were in an oversized shirt and boxer short, hair up in a messy bun. Your face looked guant, circles under your eyes, and there was still smeared blood on your face, dried and crackling. You needed a shower. Plus, you kinda smelled bad. You weren’t sure when you had last taken proper care of yourself.

You turned on his shower, waiting for the water to get warm before kicking off your clothes and stepping under the scorching spray. You took a moment to feel the water splash over your skin, cleansing, washing away. _Woosh_. With that spray, Blake was gone. _Woosh_. The events of this past month, in their entirety. Gone, washed down the drain. You reached with trembling fingers towards the body wash, some flowery soap you knew he only bought because it reminded him of May. You scrubbed your body until you felt raw and new. When you stepped out of the water, your body was flushed but you felt whole and human for the first time since Blake had died. You wrapped a towel around your mid-section before heading back out into the main space of the apartment, where the smell of bacon was swiftly filling the air.

“Smells good,” you commented, reaching down to dig through your bag for the clothes you’d worn over yesterday. It wasn’t necessarily preferable to put them back on, but they would do. You hadn’t exactly been expecting to stay over. You hadn’t been expecting any of this.

“Thank you.” You jumped at Peter’s voice, directly behind you, and before you could turn around he was wrapping an arm around you, pulling you back against him.His face was against your neck, near your ear. “You smell good.” His voice was low and husky.

“I did use your body wash,” you said, smiling. “So, I’m not sure if that’s a compliment directed a me, or a narcissistic compliment for yourself.”

He didn’t let you go, kissing the skin between your ear and your hairline. “Definitely a narcissistic compliment.”

You shoved away from him, laughing.

“You don’t have to wear those clothes again, if you don’t want to.” He swallowed hard. “You could borrow some of mine.”

“Ooooh, Parker thinks I’m cute, everybody!” you teased, dancing towards him in your towel. “He wants me in his clothesssss.”

“Shut up.” But his face was rapidly darkening, turning crimson, and you knew you’d hit your mark. “We fit in some of each other’s stuff and you know it.”

“Oh, I know.” You winked saucily, and he rolled his eyes, smiling.

“Take what you want or wear your own clothes. I need to tend to our breakfast.” He turned back to the stove, his back still freckled and pink.

You turned to his dresser, digging around until you found the sweatshirt he’d stolen. When you were sure he wasn’t watching you, you held it up to your face, breathing in. But no, of course, it didn’t smell like you anymore. It smelled like Peter, like aftershave and lemon. You let the towel drop and pulled the sweatshirt over your shoulder, yanking back on your own jeans.

“You like?” You did a twirl.

He smiled, offering a plate of eggs towards you. “Beautiful.”

You followed him to the couch, taking a bite. “’S perfect,” you told him with your mouth full.

He laughed. “I’m glad you’re enjoying.”

And you were. You really were.

***

It came back to the gravestone, because of course it did. You had left the apartment, eaten your eggs, and pretended everything was fine. Or, no, maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe that was too cynical to think. You hadn’t pretended everything was fine, you had known everything wasn’t fine and you had chosen to push it away, just a little longer, just a little longer. Just wait a little longer until you come for us, please, just let us have these moments we haven’t had yet.

You drove to the art museum, and you’d laughed as Peter had posed as the sculptures and said some cheesy lines about how you’d looked like some renaissance woman and then he’d revised and said you looked like some knight done all up in chain mail, and it culminated at the café, where some old lady had said you were a very cute couple indeed, and Peter had smiled a huge smile and pulled you close, and you felt at home in his arms, and it all felt right.

And you got back in the car to go home and you were certain you would pull him back down into bed and then you’d go to sleep and wake up and he’d roll out of bed and cook you breakfast and you’d dress in his clothes and take him to art museums and then you’d go to cafés and then you’d go back to bed and wake up and do each day over again the same as the last until you died.

He put on some song he liked and you didn’t know and so he demonstrated for you, singing along in harmonies so incredibly off-key you just had to laugh, and this was evidentally the point because he was looking very smug with himself, one hand locked around yours around the gear shift. And it wasn’t until you drove past that you started feeling weird, and that was just it, felt weird, felt that strange tightening in your bones that let you know you wouldn’t be able to just stop thinking about this.

Peter quieted from his singing, and then said, measured. “Do you want to go?”

You jumped from your thoughts. “What?”

He squeezed your fingers. “To the cemetery. Do you want to go?”

And you couldn’t tell him how much it meant to you in that moment, to have someone know you so intricately and completely that they could say the things you couldn’t say aloud, how lost and free-falling you had felt without him, so you just nodded and taken your intertwined fingers to your lips and pressed a kiss against the back of his hand.

The cemetery was quiet in the way that cemeteries were, he wove through the graves until he got to the worst kind of headstone of them all; fresh and clean. You got out and stood silent next to him, clutching his hand in your own.

You wanted to say something, you didn’t know to who, to Peter or to Blake you weren’t sure. You weren’t sure if you needed to say I’m sorry or I love you and you weren’t sure to whom you were supposed to say that to either. Peter’s hand never wavered from your own. Blake’s gravestone never wavered from your view.

Something opened up inside of you, and it wasn’t as dark and immense and all-consuming as before, but it was still sharp and terrible and it hurt. And you finally cried. Because you felt all of it, all at once, and it was so so much, and none of it felt good. And Peter held you while you did it, rubbing a hand on your shoulders every so often, shifting in the cold.

Eventually you shifted, pulling on Peter’s hand, leading him back to the car.

He didn’t say anything as he turned the ignition, turning up the heat as you shivered. He was silent as he wound back through the gravestones, and you saw your parent’s graves flash by.

You wiped snot from your nose. “I felt something.”

He squeezed your hand.

“I felt peace.” You took a shaking breath. “For the first goddamn time, I know it’s okay. And it still fucking hurts. It really fucking hurts. But I feel…” Your eyes welled again, and you let them, let the tears trickle down cheeks. “I feel peace. I don’t know how else to explain. It.”

He squeezed your hand again. Peter and warmth and home. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, lovelies! I apologize for this chapter taking a little longer- I am in the midst of exam season! That being said, I hope you enjoyed the fluff :)))) (and a little angst?? but like, hopeful angst??)
> 
> thank you so so much for reading, good luck if you're currently in a stressful school/life season as well, and if you feel like dropping me a comment, that'd be very much appreciated (comments are like cookies to me, they keep me GOING ;) )
> 
> <3


	19. pop

You wake up and Peter is there, his hands on your shoulders, pushing back your hair, “Bug, Bug, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

But something is twisting through your stomach, coursing through your veins, and it’s wrong wrong _wrong_ , and you’re shoving away his hands, because you can’t have someone touching you right now, you can’t, you can’t, and he’s pushing away from you because he knows what it’s like to need space, but his face is pale and concerned and Peter Peter, “Peter.”

“What’s wrong? What hurts?”

Everything. Your bones ached and your elbows ached and your eyelids ached and you wanted nothing more but to scream and make the pure grossness of it all go away. “Peter.”

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

You pressed fingers into the tender skin where your forearm met elbow, feeling your pulse thread against your fingertips. “It’s something inside me.”

“You’re scaring me.” His face was back, hovering above you.

You rubbed a hand over your face, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, hoping the pressure would relieve some of the gross feeling. It didn’t. But you were able to think a little more clearly, come to your senses a little more.

“Y/N?” Peter’s voice. He was with you. He was scared.

“I’m okay.” You flopped a hand towards him, finding his bicep, squeezing with limp fingers. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.”

“Don’t lie.” His voice was gentle. You shouldn’t scare him.

You opened your eyes into the night and actually saw the two of you, tangled, sweaty in your sheets. Peter propped up on an elbow, hand extended towards you, palm up. His face was furrowed, and you could practically hear his heart thundering away inside his chest.

You took a careful breath. “Something’s wrong with me.”

His frown deepened. “We’ll go to a doctor.”

That wouldn’t fix it. But you couldn’t tell him. And you had no way of knowing. You just felt it in your bones. Felt that this wouldn’t be so easily fixable.

“Okay.”

So, though it was six am on your Saturday morning and you had your first days back for the semester the very next day, you pulled on clothes and stumbled through teeth brushing and pulling hair back, and you very nearly passed out and clocked your head on the door frame of the bathroom but of course Peter was there and caught you.

He sat you down on the edge of your bed. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“It’s…” You dug fingernails into your palm. “It’s like something’s tearing me apart from the inside.”

This made him pale even further, so you attempted to backtrack, make it a bit more concrete. “My head is pounding, and I feel exhausted and achy. It sounds like the flu. It’s probably the flu.”

“But the nosebleeds.”

“It’s the change in weather.”

“It’s been cold for months now.”

You shrugged; a half-hearted twitch of your shoulders. He wasn’t convinced.

So he was ushering you out the door and into his car and from there you closed your eyes against the pounding of the city outside your door until you pulled up to the clinic where you could probably afford to pay the cost of a check-up, and you were sitting in an uncomfortable chair looking at a group of fish dart around in a tank, and Peter was sitting stiffly beside you, hands in fists.

“Sorry,” you whispered, and he turned your way, frowning. “I know you don’t like hospitals.”

He twitched. You reached out, brushing a hand over where the hair on his arm was standing straight up. “Peter.” He looked down at you, curls peeking through the top of his hoodie. “I love you.”

He kissed your forehead. “I love you.”

He pressed into you, and then someone was calling your name and you were stumbling into some unfeeling, clinical room. The nurse nodded and felt your forehead and Peter chimed in to say something about the nosebleeds and then your nose was felt, and it was determined you had the flu and allergies. So, you walked out of the clinic with a suggestion for Thermaflu, and Peter whipped out some black, fancy looking credit card before you could try and pay.

“It’s for emergencies,” he said in answer to your questioning eyebrow.

You didn’t press the matter because he was looking happier, though you were even more frightened than before, even more convinced you weren’t on the right track at all.

Peter threw an arm around you, pulling you against his side as you stumbled back to his car. “We’ll go home and then I’ll lay you down on the couch and wrap you up in tons of blankets, so many you’ll be more blanket than human, and then if you aren’t feeling nauseous, I’ll cook you some chicken noodle soup, May’s recipe, so you know it’s good.”

“Sounds perfect.” All you wanted was to sleep, and sleep for centuries, until you opened your eyes and you felt better. You collapsed in the passenger’s seat of the car, shivering violently until Peter started the engine.

“Oh, also,” his face was soft as he cranked the heat, reversing out of the parking lot, “is it okay if Ned comes over? We’re gonna try and beat the new Zelda game.”

“I thought you were taking care of me. I was getting a full blanket and chicken noodle treatment!”

“I can do both!” But his smile softened as he rubbed a hand along your knee. “But, honestly, if it’s not okay with you-”

“It’s fine, Peter.” You squeezed his hand, and his smile returned, if only slightly. Maybe some time on the couch with soup was just what you needed.

***

Ned was incredibly involved with the newest Legend of Zelda, which was perfect for you to space off to. Peter and Ned were determined to clear the entire game, and spent the entire afternoon bantering back and forth about the best strategies and who was playing better and whether it made more sense to clear all the side quest now or to come back later. You dozed off in-between episodes of them fighting and the repetitively cloying music. Peter would look back at you, every so often, rubbing a hand along your leg. “You okay?”

You’d nod.

At one point, Ned’s voice floated to you from the semi-consciousness. “So…”

Peter’s voice returned, “So, what?” and you could almost imagine him, eyes focused intently on the tv screen, tongue sticking out from between his lips as he concentrated.

“You and Y/N?”

“What about us?” But this Peter was easily sniffed out by both you and Ned alike. Guarded, but not in a bad way.

“Come on, don’t bs me.” Sounds of controllers clicking. “Aww, no, you needed to jump up on that ledge-”

“I know. I know. I’m working on it.” There was a long while where Peter was quiet, and you tried to imagine his face now. Tried to pretend it didn’t matter what he said next, what he said in response. “We’re back in each other’s lives. We’re doing what makes sense.”

“That’s all?” Ned knew. Oh, he knew.

Peter laughed, a short, embarrassed laugh. “I like her ass too. So that’s a plus.”

“Oh my fucking god.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“I knew it.” Ned shifted, the controller clicking, clicking. “I could see the way you two looked at each other when you first showed up on my door.”

“We weren’t back together then.”

“Maybe not,” Ned conceded. “But I could tell. Best friends know these things, I’m telling you.”

“Maybe.” There was a shifting, and you felt Peter move, give the controller to Ned, and then the cushions sank beside you, and Peter’s weight was by your shoulders. He placed the gentlest hand on your head and ran his fingers through your hair, from your forehead to your ear. “Maybe.”

“Mmmhm.” Ned’s focus was back on the game.

You opened your eyes, blinking up towards Peter, and then of course there was that pop and your nose was dripping. You brought fingers up fast, gathering the energy to swing your legs around the couch and grab some tissues, but Peter was faster.

“I got it,” and he disappeared briefly, coming back with tissues and a glass of water and ibuprofen. “Here.” He handed you the tissues, and you leaned forward and tried to pretend the iron taste of your own blood wasn’t becoming a new habit. Peter ran a hand over your forehead, his face holding that familiar, pinched look.

Ned’s controller had gone limp in his hand. “You said you’ve been getting nosebleeds a lot?”

You nodded.

“When did they start?”

You shrugged, taking the tissue away just long enough to speak. “Maybe a few weeks ago? They’ve been getting more frequent.”

Ned rubbed his hand along the hem of your shirt, which was what he did when he was nervous, which only served to make you more nervous.

“What?” Peter asked, and you could feel his quiet tension beside you.

“The doctor said it was probably allergies,” you whispered, but neither of the boys moved.

Peter’s eyes were still locked on Ned. “What?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing.” Ned looked down at his controller, hands still twirling, twirling. On the screen, Link was floundering in a pool of water. “It’s just…your symptoms. They sound familiar to me. They sound like something the Pharmacist would do.”

You took a beat.

“What?”

Ned swallowed. “I’ve read about the Pharmacist, how he poisoned his victims. Sometimes his concoctions were extremely fast acting, but other times…” He pulled a long string from the hem of his shirt.

“How long ago would this have happened?” you asked, frowning, eyes fixed on the bright red blossoming across the tissue in your hands.

“Well, that’s where it’s tricky, because your run-in with the Pharmacist was too recent to be in his usual time frame for poisoning, so that’s why I don’t want to get all worked up over-”

“It wasn’t our first run-in,” you whispered, clenching your fist around the tissue to stop it from trembling. “That time when Peter and I showed up at your apartment.”

Ned shook his head, “But your wrist was the only thing that hurt, right?”

The remembrance of an ache. A hand pressed against the back of your neck. Eyes wide, at Ned. “I…I don’t know.” You tried to remember the details of the alleyway fight. All you could recall was watching Peter, being scared. “But, it’s probably still nothing. What would the poisons do, anyway?”

His eyes fixed on your bloody tissue. “They would cause victims to bleed out slowly, over time. Nosebleeds were often the first sign of the poison taking hold.”

Several things happened at once: you became certain you were going to bleed out internally, Ned died in Zelda before he had saved, and Peter said, “No.”

“Peter.” You reached a hand to him, but he was far away, sitting up and away from both of you, out of your grasp.

“No,” he was shaking his head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Peter.”

He stood abruptly. His face was white. “I should have stopped him. The Pharmacist. He can’t have done this.”

“We don’t know he did.” But you knew he did. Peter knew he did.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “We should…we should go somewhere.”

“Stark,” Ned supplied. “If you wanted.”

Peter looked hesitant.

“It’s your best choice.”

He nodded, and met your eyes, waiting for your approval. You didn’t have any thoughts. You were holding a rag to your nose and trying not to think too hard about why you were doing it. You nodded to Peter. He could do whatever made him feel good.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialing a number and holding the phone to his ear tersely as he waited. “Tony?” He paced the couch. He closed his eyes. “We need your help.”

***

The drive upstate was long and tense and silent. Ned white-knuckled the steering wheel the entire time.

You had been relegated to the backseat, and you were trying to take calming breaths, trying not to let your mind race, trying not to remember the Pharmacist’s face in that alley, the pinch in the back of your neck.

“You doing okay?” There was gentle pressure on your knee, and you had an answer ready on your lips, ready to reassure him, ready to declare that of course everything was fine, but as you turned and met his gaze, your face crumpled against your will. You shut your eyes tight, cursing the traitorous tears that escaped down your cheeks. You made to push his hand away, but he was faster, reaching out to capture your hand in his. “Hey.” He wiped away a tear. “Hey, look at me.” His gaze was steady and certain. “We’re going to fix this, okay? We’re going to fix this.”

And he held your hand the rest of the car ride, though it could not have been comfortable to twist backwards in the seat like he was, and he didn’t let go even as you cleared security, not as you labored up the steps to the crumbling Avengers compound, not until you were standing before the shell of Iron Man himself, did he falter. Because Tony Stark was white as a sheet.

“Well. Shit.” Tony’s gaze travelled from your face to your fingers, to the blood crusted, trickling down to your elbows. “I was worried this day would come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! i deeply apologize about the delay on this chapter- i was super psyched about finishing exams and being on vacation and having time to write/get a regular posting schedule going again, and i was planning on posting last saturday, but ended up getting super sick and not being able to write :/ i was thinking about y'all while i was on my sick bed tho, bummed that i wasn't posting. but ANYWAY here is a chapter, and i promise more regular updates/hopefully some longer chapters coming your way soon :)
> 
> i had such a great time writing this chapter, i think bc i had taken a break from writing fic while i finished the semester, so it was so refreshing to jump back in. i also missed chatting with you guys, seriously, being able to share this with y'all has made these past months has been amazing. if you've commented, i promise i have read it and it put a smile on my face (i usually will save them for when I'm done with work/school as a reward for myself). and if you've left kudos or even just gotten enjoyment from reading this fic, i'm so happy. honestly, fic is such an escape for me, so if i'm able to provide that to just one person, it makes me feel super super fulfilled.
> 
> ANYWAY, apologizes for the rambling, it happens. if you've read this far, pls know that i love and appreciate you, and hope great things come your way in 2019! feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you thought of the chap <3


	20. coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: fake science is fake :)

The first time you died, you’d felt nothing and then everything.

The nothing hadn’t been bad, necessarily. Scary at first. Brief moments of terror; watching your hands dissolve into ashy blackness. Not knowing why. But then it was over and there was just nothing.

It was the everything that was hard. Coming back to life, as it turned out, hurt a hell of a lot more than disintegrating into dust. You had no point of comparison to the sensation. It felt like thousands of bugs crawling over your body, stitching tendons back together and repairing organs, but it pinched and burned, seared and cracked. Femurs snapped into place. Hearts zapped into starting again. An awful sort of glowing, so bright it hurt to look, and a terrible kind of heat, burning, burning.

The first time you died, you hadn’t known it was coming.

 

_The first time you wanted to tell him, it was when you reunited after the war. When he was twisted in your arms again, and you started to feel whole again, and everything was going to be alright._

_But he wasn’t alright. You could see it in the way he stared at you from his bed, propped up amongst all those pillows, like he would dissolve right into the back of the bed had they not been there._

_When he wiped his hand from his mouth and it came away covered in soot and ash, you wanted to tell him you knew. That you’d faded away and gotten pieced back together and it was collectively the most terrible experience of your life thus far, and you sometimes needed to press the sharp point of a needle against your fingers just to remind yourself that your hands were still there, that they weren’t fading away again. You knew._

_But the words wouldn’t cross your lips. Because you didn’t know. You’d come back and Peter had come back too, but he hadn’t pieced back together safe in his apartment. He’d been on a planet, somewhere far far away. And he’d fought a war. Watched people die. Defeated Thanos._

_You didn’t know anything about what that was like. So, you said nothing, because it was easier than saying something that might shatter him again. He seemed so breakable. Instead you held his hand and tried not to squeeze too tightly._

 

You watched your blood spiral through a tube, out of your arm and into a vial. It was at once fascinating and wooze-inducing. Stark’s face was tight as his eyes flicked between you and Peter, sitting side by side in rolling chairs. The lab was still a messy, desolate place; various half-built robots scattered along the floor.

When the vial was full, Stark plugged it into a machine, and images began to flicker on the monitors surrounding your head. Spirals of DNA models appeared alongside a close-up of cells.  Something was attacking them as you watched. It was an odd experience, seeing your body, projected on a screen, dying.

“Well?” Peter asked, his voice hopeful.

Stark remained impassive, his face a mask. He flicked a pen around in his fingers, pressing against his lips until they turned white. “Well. I’ve seen better.”

“Can you cure it?” Your voice, fragile and shaky, surprised you. Peter squeezed your hand so tight it hurt.

“Of course, he can cure it.”

Tony’s pen pressed harder against his lips. “I’ll do my best. How this poison is acting…it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I looked at models of the poison the Pharmacist used on other victims; it’s not the same. I don’t have a timeline…I don’t have a precedent.”

“What if we found him?” Peter’s voice was quiet and still.

“Don’t be foolish.” Tony’s response was immediate, but it took a second for you to process what Peter was saying. To go after the Pharmacist. Like he would have, back when he was Spider-Man.

“We could force him to talk.”

“ _We_ aren’t doing anything. You know as well as I do all the Iron Man suits are destroyed.”

“I still have my suit.”

Tony laughed, a single, hard, _ha._

Peter was silent.

 

_The second time you wanted to tell him, you found him on a rooftop. Wrapped in a threadbare hoodie, one that hung off his shoulders and couldn’t be much protection against the winter chill beginning to set in around Manhattan. He was shivering. Arms wrapped around his middle, offering some semblance of comfort or protection._

_Your lips formed his name, but you didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to startle him. Something clicked on the ground by your feet, and you looked down at his web shooters. Looked back up at him, stuck on the side of the roof so he was parallel with the dizzying streets below.  Unprotected._

_The wind hurled around your faces, twisting and tangling your hair up into the air, blowing his curls flat against his forehead. It was cold and biting and bitter._

_“I need to talk to you,” you told him, because it was true. You’d woken up with ash smeared along your lips and chin, and you just needed someone to talk about it to because your parents weren’t home and Peter was the only other person you could trust._

_Peter’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t move. Didn’t turn and look at you. Didn’t step up and away from the ledge._

_“I need your help.” Your words were snatched away by the wind almost as soon as they left your lips, but you knew he heard._

_His hands flexed outwards, tendons shifting across the back of his palms, fingers outstretched as if electricity crackled through his fingertips. His shoulders were squared with the look of a proud king surveying his desolated kingdom._

_“Peter, please step down from there.” He didn’t move. “You’re scaring me.”_

_“Oh,_ I’m _scaring_ you.”

_His cold laugh should have scared you away. Instead, it emboldened your next words. “I know what it’s like. I know what you’re going through. You can talk to me.”_

_His gaze remained stoically downward, fixated on the city below. “You have no idea what I’m going through.”_

_“Yes, I do, and if you’d just talk to me-”_

_“I don’t want to talk to anyone, ever again.” His tone was final. You looked at him, face first down to the neon streets below._

_A whisper. “Please come down from there.”_

_He didn’t move._

_“You don’t have to talk to me. Not if you don’t want to. But please come down.”_

_“I like standing out here.”_

_You took a deep, steadying breath. “Then I’ll stand out here with you.”_

 

In the lab, Stark still fidgeted with the computer screens. “What we need is time, and I’m not sure how much of that we have. I’ll have to develop an antidote to whatever’s happening as soon as possible. It’s the only way.”

A thought occurred to you then, running through your veins like ice. “Peter.” He turned towards you questioningly, but you fixed your gaze on Stark. “The Pharmacist stuck Peter too. When we were attacked in the alley, and later on, when we were with Blake.” You tried to ignore how Blake’s name fell off your lips.

Peter frowned. “I haven’t felt any of the effects.”

“Give me your arm.” Tony’s voice was unwavering, and Peter obligingly offered his elbow to the waiting needle. You felt very small, just then, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Peter in a lab with poison pumping through your body with every beat of your heart. It was as though someone else was watching Peter’s red red blood circle through the plastic into the vial. You were somewhere else entirely, somewhere far away from here. Somewhere where Peter wasn’t Spider-Man and you weren’t an orphan and both of you didn’t have your DNA models projected onto a screen.

Both Peter and Tony tilted their heads as they considered Peter’s cells, and something ached inside as you regarded the twin angle of their chins. Were they as repairable as you and Peter? Were you and Peter repairable at all?

“It looks fine,” you said, something twisting oddly in your chest as the words crossed your lips. You were at once relieved, a weight pulled off your chest. But there was also an aching. Had you wished Peter to be poisoned too? Then you wouldn’t be alone. Alone to wonder how it would feel to die for a second tie.

Stark tapped the pen on the table. “There are signs of trauma here, but it looks like your body is repairing it. Each cell it destroys is automatically replaced.”

“So, even though I was poisoned, my healing factor is faster than the poison?” Peter asked. His face was complicated, hard to read.

Tony nodded, still chewing on the pen. “So it seems.”

“But the Pharmacist mentioned something about developing a drug that worked on Peter,” you said quietly. “He said he was working on something to affect the whole world. A second Reaping.”

Peter twitched at the word. His voice was cold as he looked at Tony. “You said you were going to capture him. How’s that coming?”

Stark’s eyes narrowed, as if he picked up on the accusatory tone. “It’s coming.”

Peter twitched again, this time looking as though he was going to punch or break something, or punch or break Tony. But he didn’t get up from his seat, his voice distant. “So, what do you want us to do?”

“Sit tight and not do anything stupid.” Tony pushed back from the work bench, still considering the monitors up overhead. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Can I go home?” you asked, because the prospect of waiting here, in this empty shell of a place, a waiting coffin, was horrifying.

Tony’s face pinched tighter. “Yeah. You should…you should be comfortable.”

 

The third time you wanted to tell him, you were walking out of Tony Stark’s lab. There was an odd, wobbly feeling in your middle, like you were made of Jell-O. Peter’s hand was on your elbow, guiding you out the door to find Ned.

You nearly made it back to the car.

But your feet faltered, and your lip trembled just a little too much, and the tears you had been holding back came rushing out in one shuddering gasp. Peter twisted you around, pulling you into a hug; crushing you against his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I don’t want to die,” you told him. “I’m not ready. I’m not ready to die.”

“I know.” His voice was a rumble against your ear. “We’re gonna fix this. It’s gonna be okay.”

“No, we’re not.” You looked up at him, strong jawed and defiant, and almost believed he could have been Spider-Man once. “There’s not enough time.”

He sighed, and it was as if all the air deflated out of him in one breath. A Peter balloon that no longer had enough helium to stay afloat. He tilted his head down, pressing his forehead against yours. “I promise you.”

“Promise me what, Peter?”

But if he had an answer, he didn’t share it with you. More than likely, they had been just words, something to make you feel anything but the dizzying paranoia ruling your every breath. More than likely, he was just as lost and scared as you.

And this was when the words rose to your lips. _I’ve died before and I’m too much of a coward to do it again._ But you couldn’t say them aloud, because to say them aloud was to acknowledge that you would never be good enough for him, never be brave enough, to be shattered and paralyzed by something so minor compared to what he’d been through. You wanted to shoulder his burdens, but you couldn’t even carry your own. And you weren’t in a place to admit that. Because if you admitted it, you would completely break down. And that was something for another time.

So instead you cradled your arms around his neck and pressed your forehead even harder against his. And hoped he knew what you were saying without saying anything at all.

His eyes, so close to yours they almost melded into one, were doe-eyed and sincere. “Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY 2019! I hope the new year is treating you well so far :)
> 
> So the plot thickens...I hope to be tying together a lot of plot points soon so we'll see how that all works out- I promise there's still a lot of fireworks to come. I'm hoping to go through and edit this fic soon (just for typos and such, nothing huge), but it'll probably take me a little bit, so THANK YOU to if you read this as I post it bc I know sometimes there are random typos/inconsistencies/formatting issues. Sometimes I want to get the chapter up ASAP to y'all, and while I try and catch stuff, it doesn't always work. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think in the comments. Will the Reader survive? Will they find an antidote? Will Ned Leeds still be my fav? (The answer to the last question is def yes ;) )


	21. bite

When you dreamed, you dreamed in spiders.

Crawling up your body, legs tickling your limbs, pincers brushing fingertips and toes. There were hundreds. Thousands. Tiny bodies danced along your elbow, while a tarantula sniffed its way around your ankle. Something tickled near your lips. You opened your mouth automatically, expecting the spiders to crawl into your teeth and tongue.

Instead, a spider crawled out.

The arachnid was slender and oil slick black. Round, coin-sized body with long, delicate legs. It crawled its way up your cupids bow, along your nose, between your eyes, up your forehead. It disappeared from your head for a moment, crawling up the walls and across the ceiling, before beginning its descent back down towards your face, dangling from a string of silk. It was beautiful; graceful as a dancer languidly twisting down its translucent line. Balancing right in front of your nose.

You breathed out. The spider swung delicately back and forth.

You could see its fangs, glistening with venom. You could smell the poison, feel it pulsing through the spider’s tiny body. It whispered what you had to do.

You lifted an arm up towards the spider. You’d expected your hand to tremble, or your breath to catch, or your heart to race. But you were steady. The spider landed gracefully on your forearm, tickling along your arm hairs as it scuttled along. It hissed something long and drawn out. It sounded like words. Like you could understand them if you tried a little harder.

You watched it bite down.

***

You shuddered awake.

Peter’s hand was on your thigh, holding you. “It’s okay. You were just having a dream.” His thumb rubbed absentminded circles against your jeans.

You blinked. You were in a car. It was rumbling below you. Peter was there, and the passing streetlights illuminated his pinched face in flashes. You felt…you felt wrong. Like something should crawl out of your gut and swallow you whole. It was all you could think about. “There were spiders.”

“What?”

“Spiders.”

Peter frowned, and his thumb rubbed harder against your leg.

Your head pounded and made it hard to focus. But you had to tell him. It seemed important. “There were spiders. I wasn’t afraid of them.”

“We’re almost home, okay? I just have to drop Ned off, and then we’ll be home.”

“No, no.” You rubbed at your face. He didn’t understand. “Peter, I wasn’t afraid of them.”

“Okay. Okay. We’ll be there soon.”

You remembered what the spider had told you. Before the bite.

_I’m the only way._

***

Movement. You were being lifted through the air, winter chill biting your cheeks. Your face brushed against fabric, and you tried to open your eyes. They were too heavy to move. Murmured noises, and then there was warmth, and the smell of candles. You were laid somewhere, somewhere soft, and someone gently was working off your shoes and socks. Pulling covers up to your chin.

A hand against your forehead, and you finally opened your eyes, blinking owlishly into the darkness. Your surroundings were immediately recognizable in the dim light, but the person was. “May?”

“I’m right here,” she promised, brushing her hand over your forehead once again. “Do you think you could keep some fever reducers down?”

You blinked at her, trying to match her mouth up with her words, form those words into sentences that made sense. She waited, only letting a brief look of concern slip through, as you pieced them all together. “Maybe?”

There was something important. Something you needed to tell her. To tell Peter.

Weight shifted off the bed. “I’ll go get some for you to try.”

You watched her leave the room, leaving your gaze on the doorway even after she was gone because it was too much work to turn your head back the other way. Your eyes found a poster fluttering gently on the wall by the movement of the fan. NEW LEGO EXPO COMING TO MANHATTAN. Peter’s room.

He appeared in the doorframe as if you’d summoned him with your thoughts. His whole body carried tension; there was a knot in his shoulders, a terseness in the tilt of his head. You wondered if you should be sharing that tension. Your head pounded with a deep sense of fear; you couldn’t deny that. But some part of you couldn’t focus on all of that right now. You had to remain in the present. Everything about you was currently fighting. There was no time for contemplation.

May returned, squeezing Peter’s shoulder before returning to your side. You struggled to push yourself up into a seated position, taking care not to hit your head on the top of Peter’s bunk as you did so. It felt strange to be in his bed without him. Like you were a child staying home sick from school, stuck in a time years gone, but this wasn’t your room, and May wasn’t your mom.

“Here.” She pressed some pills into your hand and you tossed them back, taking the water next and gulping it down. Your hands were trembling, and the water slopped over the edge onto the blankets. May just smiled gently and stroked your hair, turning towards Peter as she got up. “I need to get to work, but call me if you need me, okay?”

Peter tersely nodded, making his way to your side as she left and sitting down. “Here, scooch,” he said, nudging your hips so you shifted towards the left, making room for two bodies on the twin sized bed. You laid there for a moment, side by side, staring up at the glow in the dark stars that had been pasted on the bottom of the top bunk, visible only from the bottom bed. You heard Peter’s breathing, steady and vital and strong. He reached up, tracing a finger along the stars, feeling the ridges.

“I wish they were real stars.” His voice was low and rumbling. As unsure as a little kid’s. “I wish they were shooting stars. So we could make a wish.”

“Pshoooooo.” You reached up to follow his hand, trickling fingers along the back of a star, pretending to be its tail. “Look. I found one.” Your fingers met his, tangling together. “Your hands are cold.”

“Mmmm.” He pulled your still intertwined hands down towards his chest, and you released his fingers only for a moment, to drag the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands.

“There.” You clasped both of his sweatshirted hands between yours. “Now you have sweatshirt paws.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perfect.”

“Peter,” you reached back up towards him, messing with the strings of his hoodie. His eyes had closed, and he looked tired. “I saw something.”

His eyes opened, just to a squint. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to explain it.” Everything felt wobbly. Suddenly your voice was shaking, your hands were shaking, your body trembling. “I’m just…” And your voice was wet. “I’m scared.”

“Oh, bug.” His hands covered yours again.

“My body is falling apart, Peter. And I don’t know…I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Tony will think of something.” But his voice didn’t sound as sure as it once would have. It sounded hollow. An echo of words once believed in.

“No, he won’t.” Your voice was quiet, but the words rang with truth. “Not in time.”

Peter flinched but didn’t say anything in response. Didn’t have anything to say in response.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you.” You searched for the visions, trying to form the images into coherent sentences. Holding onto them was like trying to keep sand from trickling through your fingers. “I saw something.”

He was still quiet, but his head tilted towards the side. Questioning.

“Spiders.”

You breathed out the word and the world stood still.

“What?”

“I had a…” What word to use to describe it? The strange visions…the truth they held? “A dream.”

“A dream?”

“Yes.” His face was changing, hardening, and you needed him to believe this, you needed him to believe you. “I dreamed of spiders all over me. And one bit me.”

“So you had a scary dream.”

You closed your eyes tight, scared of the dangerous territory you were about to dive into. “Peter, you’re immune to the Pharmacist’s poison because of your bite.”

His face was close off. “What are you trying to say?”

“What if I-”

His response was immediate: “No.”

You shifted up and away from him, propping yourself on an elbow. “What you mean, ‘No’? I haven’t said anything yet.”

He didn’t move into a more defensive position, didn’t even blink twice, which somehow infuriated you more. “I know what you’re going to say. And it’s stupid.”

“How is it stupid? How is anything stupid in this kind of fucked up situation? I had a dream I was bitten by a spider. It cured me. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but if I could get powers…”

“No, no, see this is where you don’t understand.” He held up a hand, and though his face was still hard and emotionless, there was nothing but fear fear fear raging in his eyes. “Because you couldn’t get powers. We don’t know where that spider is, or if there were others, or-”

“What are you saying?” You felt your shields come up, more defensive than you’d expected. You’d thought he would be ecstatic at this news. A glimmer of hope in the tunnel, at least. “This is our only chance. I might not have any other chance.”

He stared up at you, eyes wild. “Do you understand what you’re saying? Find a radioactive spider? Get bit? What do you want next, a superhero suit? That’s not going to solve this.”

“We thought about it when we were kids, didn’t we? Spider-Man and Super-Bug together? Fighting crime?”

He sat up so hard his head hit the top bunk with a CRACK. He didn’t seem to notice. “We were _kids_. We knew nothing.”

You swung your legs off the bed, shakily standing up because you couldn’t bear to be near him in that instant, to be inches from touching him. Peter’s hands reached towards you, as if unsure if you would fall, but you remained steady, running a trembling hand through your hair. You felt wobbly inside. As if you’d been knocked off-kilter. “Why are you being like this? I had a vision. It could mean nothing, but it could also mean _something_ , which is better than what we have.”

Peter scowled at you from the bed, but he still wasn’t standing up to fight you properly. It was infuriating. “Even if we could. I wouldn’t let you do that to yourself.”

“Do what?” you spat, just to make him say it, just to be mean.

“Be a superhero.” He flinched, and you felt a twinge of regret at making him voice the words. “If that’s what you want to call it. Have that power. Feel its weight.”

“I could try.”

“No.” His face was a mask, and it made you snap.

“I could _die,_ Peter. Do you realize that?” You were so scared. You were all alone. “I _am_ dying, every second we stand here.”

“I couldn’t let you.” His eyes were pleading with you to understand but you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

“I don’t want to be a superhero.” And your voice was betraying you now, warbling with tears. “I don’t want to fly around or to have a cape. I just want to _live_.”

He finally climbed from the bed to face you, arms opened, inviting. “I want that too. More than anything.”

“No.” You took a step back. “You don’t want that. You’re not willing to fight for me.”

He dropped his arms. Whispered, “That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

“This is my only chance! It’s either this or sit on my ass and die!”

 His eyes were distant. “It’s too much, too much for anyone.”

“I could try.”

“I was too much for me.”

“You were sixteen.” This blow did hurt. You watched him flinch.

When he spoke again, his eyes were narrowed, gentle fury stoked beneath them. “I was thirteen. And it changed my life forever. So don’t pretend you can take it on. Don’t pretend like your shoulders are stronger than mine were. Don’t keep pretending you’re better than everyone else.”

“Then don’t keep pretending like you can’t rely on anyone for help!” you countered. “Don’t pretend you don’t push people away just as much as you attempt to draw them close. Don’t pretend all of this happened because you had acne when you found out you could climb walls!”

“I died, okay?” His voice rang off the walls with a kind of heightened finality, and it was obvious he knew that on most days these words would have ended whichever argument had been raised. But not today. “I died, and it fucked me up, but you don’t know what it’s like. How that can change you.”

“Yes, I do.”

Your breaths, both frozen together in the air. Cosmic, forever. Twin mouths open in surprise. Him, at what you’d said. You, that you’d said it.

You took a sucking breath in. “I died too, and no one cared. Because I was just one of many. Dusted and revamped. On my second model.”

His voice was small. “You never told me.”

“You never asked.” You focused on a decathalon trophy on the shelf behind you. “And it was okay. Because you were going through a lot. Everyone was going through a lot. And I found that…I found that helping you helped me, some. So, I coped, and I made it. And I say this not to garner pity, but because,” you closed your eyes, not able to meet his own, “Peter, I can’t die again. I’m too scared.

He looked broken and sad, a little boy. Still frozen. Unmoving.

“I have to go.” You grabbed your coat with trembling hands. “I have to fix this.”

_“Never leave me,” he said, a giant smile on his face. You would do anything for that smile. “Please never leave me.”_

You stumbled out the door. You waited for him to follow.

You waited for him to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello loveliesssss. so so sorry about the delay on this chap- i've had this sitting in a half-edited state for like 1.5 weeks but my life's been a little crazy between getting sick, having my grandpa pass away, starting the semester, getting sick AGAIN, and interviewing for a new job. so def some ups and downs, but i apologize for the delay <3
> 
> i hope you enjoyed the chapter- i promise we're going to start seeing some positive character growth coming soon...even if it doesn't seem like it in the moment ;) hang with me, hang with me
> 
> if you enjoyed, please lmk what you thought in the comments below, or hit that kudos button! it means a lot. love y'all, have a great week <3


	22. rendezvous

Gwen, to her credit, was unflinching.

Her face was hard, unreadable, as she sat before you. Eyes hard, strong jaw, muscles clenching every so often. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, fingers grasping upper arm. You spoke until your voice grew hoarse and your head spun. Everything. Everything. It was as though a sprocket had been loosened in your throat, and every secret, every hidden glance, every cold shoulder was now being revealed. You told her everything, without abandon. From that first day with Peter stuck to the ceiling and wondering how at thirteen he could suddenly lift a car to being told you were slowly being destroyed from the inside out by the same psychopath who had killed both your parents and Blake.

Some, not insignificant, part of you worried about what this might mean for your friendship. Secrets, secrets, were no fun unless you shared with everyone, after all. Gwen was your rock, your center. And while you hadn’t necessarily lied to her about Peter, what you had said was far from the truth. And the truth was…well. It was crazy.

But her gaze was still impassive as you laid out the impossibilities of the situation. The only possible betrayal of concern was the tightening of her eyebrows; a crease appearing on the bridge of her forehead.

You finished talking, and your words echoed into the otherwise still room. Your head pounded in time to your now constant headache, and you took a shaky sip of water from the glass near you on the apartment counter. You felt empty, spent. You had poured everything out for her, and now you just had to wait.

She was quiet for a long time after you finished talking.

You fidgeted with the sleeves of your sweatshirt, but she was still. Stoic. Steady breaths, in and out, eyes narrow as she regarded you. Her lips parted, as though she was going to say something, a retort, a reprimand, anything, but she just blinked a few times and closed them again. She looked away for a moment, swallowing hard, and when her gaze found yours again, her eyes were shining brilliantly.

“You didn’t have to do all of that alone.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “Didn’t I?”

“You don’t have to do all of it alone.” Her gaze was bright, fearsome. “What do you need? I’ll do it. What do we need to find out? We’ll find it.”

“I don’t know,” you told her honestly, because you didn’t. “I’m not sure what any of this means. I could just be crazy.”

Your hand was trembling, the glass of water shaking and slopping near the edge. A few drops escaped the rim, splashing onto the granite. You felt Gwen’s eyes on you, on the shaking.

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

You huffed out a laugh, lips twitching into a smile. “That makes one of us.”

But Gwen’s face was earnest. “But I think we have something. The spiders. What you saw. That’s something, and it’s better than nothing. Even if it’s vague and confusing.”

“I need to find Oscorp. Find out what happened to those spiders they were using. Maybe…I don’t know, maybe if we found one, we could use it’s venom as an antidote to the poison.”

“What about Peter?” she asked. “Would he know anything? He was bitten by one, after all.”

You shook your head, and an odd shadow passed over her face.

“I don’t understand.”

“He didn’t come with me. He thinks…he thinks the spiders are a stupid idea.”

Her face hardened back into steely resolve. “Why don’t you go and see what you can find on Oscorp.” Her hand was soft on your shoulder, but her eyes blazed with a kind of fearsome fire. “I’ll handle this.”

***

You woke up to yelling.

Or, no, that wasn’t quite right, but you woke up to tenseness, terseness. You had dozed off on the couch, papers crinkling around you as you stretched, wiping a hand across your eyes. There was a piece of notebook paper by your cheek you had been using as a pillow, almost out of focus with proximity to your gaze, on which someone had scrawled, “Spiders? Sewers?” and that was fairly indicative as to how the research was going so far.

You heard voices as you rose back to consciousness, or maybe it was just one voice, Gwen’s voice. She was pacing; you could see flashes of her as she stomped out of her room, stomped back in again. Her blond hair was up in a ponytail, and it swished irritatedly from side to side as she whispered tersely into the phone pressed against her ear.

You could only hear snatches of her voice as she entered and exited the room. “No, I don’t think _you_ …understand…need to be here…”

There was a pause, and you imagined you heard the other person buzzing their response through the receiver. In your mind, they were cowering in fear from the pure intimidation waves currently rolling off of Gwen.

She let out an irritated scoff. “Please. I’m not that dense…told me everything…What do I want? I want-”

She paused outside her door this time, face red and flushed as she listened to the person on the other end. Angry pink splotches laced down her neck and shoulders as she gripped the phone, eyes narrow.

“Listen, you’re trying to do what’s right. And I appreciate that. But you need to get your ass here. End of story.”

She dropped the phone away from her ear, letting out a spluttering sigh and closing her eyes. When she opened her eyes, they were soft and kind, tired. “Sometimes I kinda wish we had flip phones again, if only so you could slam it dramatically shut to end your call if you needed to.” She smiled gently in your direction, seeming to deflate a bit more, splotches disappearing from her neck. “How did you sleep?”

You lifted a shoulder in response. You were living in a foglike state no matter how much sleep you got at this point. It would have scared you, if you’d had the energy to be scared.

Gwen nodded, analytical eyes surveying the explosion of research crawling its way across the living room floor. There was a fire burning in her eyes, and you knew she’d stay up all night to figure this out if she had to.

“Who were you talking to?”

Her gaze darkened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“So that answers _that_ question.”

Her lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. “Ha. Ha.”

But you couldn’t ignore the crushing fear churning in your stomach. “So, he’s not coming?”

Gwen shrugged, and her voice was sad but honest. “I don’t know.”

It all seemed like too much. The chase. The research. The searching. The dying. Impending doom was something that seemed so beautifully tragic in movies. But in reality, it was much stranger and more complex. Knowing there was a ticking time bomb attached to your back. Being too tired to do a damn thing about it. “I’m going to go lay in my room for a little while.”

Gwen nodded, and her gaze was soft. “Okay. I’ll keep looking for stuff.”

You collapsed into your covers and were greeted by visions of spiders and of Gwen, hungry and sleep deprived, wandering through the halls of Oscorp, shouting your name again and again. You could see her, blond hair in a halo of messy bun, but every time she glanced your way, it was as though she looked right through you. A ghost.

You shuddered awake and promptly vomited blood all over your lap.

“Peter,” you whispered, because it was the only name to come to your lips.

And, somehow, he was there beside you. Eyes wide and scared, arms stretched out towards you.

“Peter.” But your lips weren’t working right, and there was red splashing down his chest now, and he was yelling, and it was loud loud loud.

For a moment, one brief, eternal moment, he held you, crushed you tightly to him. And then he was gone, leaving you to stumble after him, tripping over your own feet. Landing on the floor of your bedroom, knocking into a box still on the floor from your research on the Pharmacist. A box of your parent’s things. Things you’d been too sensitive, at the time, to go through.

There was commotion from the other room, and there was sticky blood all down your front, but suddenly everything was quiet.

Still.

There was a paper, you could see it, it had a spider on it. _I’m the only way_. You pulled it out of the box. The paper was fancy and thick beneath your fingers, which left crimson prints down the edge. The words and letters swam before your eyes, and nothing made sense. But you saw one thing. An address. 1902 Jameson Lane. An address and a spider.

“Peter.” But he was already there again, lifting you up into his arms, and the paper fell from your hand, and you tried to tell him, but your lips weren’t working, but this seemed important, and he must have thought you were scared, because his lips were against your temple, and he was whispering, whispering.

“It’s going to be okay, we’re going to make this okay. It’s going to be okay.”

You blinked and you were back in the living room, and Gwen was yelling something about getting a coat, and someone was throwing something around your shoulders and “socks, she needs socks or she’ll be cold,” and someone shoved shoes on your feet without socks anyway, and they just needed to understand the address, you needed to go to the address, 1902 Jameson Lane, and it would be okay, just like Peter was saying.

“Peter,” you spluttered, but you just retched again, and you were covered in blood, covered in your own blood.

“Oh god.” Gwen’s voice was near your ear, and Peter was pressing you against her, saying something about getting the car and how he was going to be right back and to hold on okay just hold on.

And then he was gone, and it was quiet, and you were scared.

“We need…” you focused, urging your lips to follow what you wanted them to say. “we need to go to an address.”

Gwen nodded down at you, and there were tears in her eyes. “It’s going to be okay. Peter’s going to get the car. We’re gonna be okay.”

“We need to go…” you fought another gag. “We need to go to the address.”

“We will, we will.” She rubbed a hand across your forehead. “Don’t worry, okay?”

And you weren’t worried.

You watched detachedly as Gwen’s face grew tighter and tighter, and she clenched a phone against her cheek several times to the dial tone and no response. “He should have been back by now.”

You weren’t worried.

She set you down on the couch, her jaw clenched tight, eyes wild with indecision. “I’ll be right back, okay? I just need to find out where Peter went, and I can’t carry you that far.”

You blinked, and she was gone.

You needed to get to that address.

1902 Jameson Lane.

You blinked, and there was more blood coating your arms. It seemed like it had been a long time since Gwen had gone looking for Peter. You stood up on shaking legs. Blinked, and you were out the apartment door. Blinked, and you were in an alleyway. Easy. A voice echoed back to you from some childhood nature show. _The body can do amazing things to survive._

“Peter?” Your voice echoed off the trashcans and rats. Silence. “Gwen?”

Something popped in the back of your head, and you had the chilling realization that you would die out here, in this alleyway.

Your voice shook a little more this time. “Please? Somebody?”

A boy materialized out of the shadows. Tall and dark haired. He was whole, and breathing, and not covered in blood.

You breathed out. “I don’t understand.”

He stretched a lazy smile. Your lazy smile. The one that had greeted you countless mornings and lulled you to sleep countless nights. “Isn’t there somewhere you need to be?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone commented they were excited about things starting to clear up but uh...hee hee. also let me tell you gwen was never supposed to be as big of a character as she's ended up being, but here we are and i love her sm. 
> 
> quick question if you have a preference: would y'all rather have shorter (~2k) chapters or longer (~5k) chapters as we thunder towards a finale (don't worry, we still have a little bit to go)? I could make chapters longer, but it would probably take me more like 3 weeks to update rather than the 1.5-2 it's looking like this semester. regardless, you'd still get the same content, it would just be more condensed or more spread out.
> 
> if you enjoyed, please lmk what you thought in the comments below, or hit that kudos button! i really love reading and responding to everyone, it makes my day. love y'all, have a great week <3


	23. 1902 jameson lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the reader is dying, peter and gwen are gone, and mysterious things are happening  
> (and that's what you missed on glee)

“You’re dead.”

The boy before you was young, younger than you had ever known him in life. His shoulders were skinny, not as broad as you remembered, and his arms hung awkwardly down at his sides. Like he hadn’t quite grown into them yet. His brown eyes were wide and innocent; acne still freckling along his cheeks. His face knew you, though. His lips like the last time you had kissed them. Hands like the last time he had held you. His neck was clean, not covered in blood.

Blake opened his arms slightly, like he was offering you a huge. His forearms were bare and freckled. “And you’re well on your way.”

“I don’t understand.” You reached out, fingers hesitating inches from his skin. You could feel a gentle heat radiating from his wrists, could see blood twisting in his veins, could see his chest rising and falling with breath before you.

“Don’t try.” He raised his hand, so your fingers touched his wrist. He was solid and firm under your hand. Real. When you met his gaze, his childlike eyes were concerned. You were seeing Blake here, in the flesh, as he would have at thirteen years old. “We don’t have time for that.”

“Oh.” You reached back up to your face, fingertips brushing along the blood still crusted there. A reminder of your situation. The immediacy. You grabbed Blake’s hands again, squeezing hard. “Are you really here?”

“As here as you are.” He was so young. It was impossible. And yet. He pulled on your hand. “We need to go.”

“Peter.” The word fell off your lips almost automatically. “Gwen. We needed…”

What was it that you needed to do? You were supposed to go somewhere…you were supposed to get help. It was important?

Blake’s brow furrowed. “Who is Peter?”

You breathed out. “I don’t know.”

The world blurred in and out of focus, and there was the odd sensation of floating through air, stomach dropping underneath; like the crux of a rollercoaster, when you’re weightless, plummeting at high speeds towards the earth.

You breathed in- You were in a car. Blake was driving.

“Where are we?”

Blake flickered, and then disappeared.

“Blake?”

You were in a car. You were driving.

There was blood. Blood everywhere. You couldn’t remember your name. You couldn’t remember why you were here.

“is this real?”

You were in a car. Blake was driving.

He looked over from the driver’s seat. His eyes were wild and scared. “No.”

“What’s happening?”

His cheeks were those of a thirteen-year-old. You had never known Blake then. He had never known he would fail to live past nineteen.

“You’re dying.”

1902 Jameson Lane.

“I need to go there.”

“I know.”

The streetlights outside flashed past, their speed dizzying and entrancing. A nauseating blur of colors your brain had no way of comprehending.

“Do you remember the people?”

“What?”

“The people you needed. Peter and Gwen.”

Their names meant something to you. But what? You weren’t sure. All you could think of…all you could think of was this moment. Still breathing. The blood. Blake before you.

Gwen…she was early morning cereal and late-night donut runs, she was the shampoo you bought at Costco because you loved how it smelled in her hair, she was you at your best and you at your worst and all the mediocre boring in-betweens. You didn’t know how to convey this all to Blake.

Peter was more solid in your mind. He was a physical presence; you could picture hands and toes, bruised knees and busted lips. He smelled like old aftershave, the kind passed down from father to son, never really meant to be worn. He was a constant in your turbulent life; he knew you, though you were unknowable.

“And what am I?” Blake asked you. He ran a solidly red light, and a distant car horn blared. “What was I, to you?”

“Something in-between,” you told him, which was the truth. “Maybe like you are now.”

He seemed satisfied with this answer.

The car skidded to a halt. You slammed against the dash of the car.

Blake blinked. “We’re here.”

***

The second you stumbled from the car onto the pavement, you promptly threw up more blood and your phone started ringing.

Blake wasn’t much help in any of this because he was still a ghost or whatever, so you contemplated the darkened ruby of your own life force spattered on some desolate New York street while groping for the tinny ringing. Something about the cool pavement, the little rocks cutting into your palms, brought you back to reality, if only for a moment. There was something you had to do.

The phone blinked before you. “Are you listening closely?”

Something told you that you knew this voice. Recognized it from some past life.

“Listen, darling, we have a score to settle.”

“What?” Your voice was groggy and clogged with blood.

“You know the poison currently running through your veins? I need to do a little more testing. So, I brought your two friends here with me to carry something out.”

Peter and Gwen. You didn’t quite know them. But they were in trouble.

“You can be a good girl and come meet me in my warehouse as well, or I kill them even faster.”

The phone clicked off.

You stared at it. Stared and stared. A drop of blood dripped from your chin to plink down on the phone screen, closing an app.

Blake wavered nervously in front of you. “He could be lying.”

“He’s not.”

“He could be.”

“What did you bring me here for?” You needed to stay focused, complete your task.

“The spiders.”

Right. The spiders. Because somehow, you would show up at Oscorp and the place would be crawling with spiders and they would somehow answer all your life’s problems. But when you gathered the strength to lift your head, you almost wanted to just collapse right back down.

“Blake.”

Oscorp’s satellite headquarters, 1902 Jameson Lane, the one your parents must have worked at, was nothing but rubble. Moss grew over some large slabs of concrete, and smaller rocks fill the in-between spaces. It was obvious it had been in this state for a while. This place could have been a lab, possibly, but it would have been years ago.

“No spiders.”

Blake shook his head. “Look closer.”

He offered something towards you, a manila folder. As you struggled to get your eyes to focus, you recognized the blood stain fingerprints from earlier. The project from your parents. The project that had lead you here.

“There’s a map.”

And he was right, on the bottom of the page, there was a crudely doodled diagram, marking a place where something had been buried. Words swam in front of you on the page, but your heart was thumping too hard, you couldn’t read, you could only hope this meant something.

“Dig.”

And so you did, pushing apart the smaller bits of rubble and digging until your hands bled and everything was bleeding and it was all running together and this was all for nothing you were going to die you were you were going to die-

And your fingers hit metal.

“Pull it out.”

And you did. And inside the box was a clear glass box. A spider crawled along the glass, little legs scraggling along as it saw daylight. There was a simple note on the container: “If you are reading this. I am the last of my kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for being so patient with me! i usually write on weekends and have been traveling every weekend for the past month :/ next weekend i will also be out of town BUT after that i am camping out and STAYING IN MY APARTMENT FOREVER so hopefully updates will be much more frequent (we don't have too far to go now after all ;) ). Most ppl said they'd prefer shorter chaps/more frequent updates, so I will try and deliver on that as best as possible.
> 
> hopefully this chapter was fun?? i wanted it to be a little weird/confusing, so hopefully it was coherent enough to be basically understandable. don't worry, there's more angst to come before we close this all out :))))
> 
> if you enjoyed, pls let me know what you think in the comments below! i love hearing from you all :) either way, i hope you have an incredible week ahead, and i will see you shortly <3


	24. shatter

One moment you were holding the glass box, spider contained inside, trying to make sense of what was seemingly impossible. Part of your parent’s legacy had lived on. They had preserved this last bit of miraculous science here, and it was now in your hands.

The next moment, everything went black and splotchy, and when you opened your eyes, you were somewhere new.

There was a strange wailing sound coming from the next room. You followed it to its source.

You were in an abandoned warehouse. Your breath echoed around you as you stepped across the pamphlet-covered floor, and each echo felt ominous, important. The wailing was coming from a girl lying in the middle of the room. Her leg was cut open and gushing blood.

Gwen.

Her eyes turned to look at you, and they were full of fear and blame. “You couldn’t save me,” she cried, bloody hands pressing against her leg. It was in vain. She’d already lost too much blood. “You couldn’t save either of us.”

You whipped around, expecting to still find Blake ghosting behind you. But he was gone. No longer in this vision, this version of reality.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, but her eyes had already hardened.

“Me too.” And her body dropped back with a dull thud onto the bloody pamphlets.

“Y/N!”

Someone called your name across the warehouse.

“Peter!”

And in an instant, he was in your arms. He didn’t feel quite real, he wasn’t solidly there, but you knew this was as close as you were going to get in this vision. You could still feel him though.

Feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards him. Foreheads pressed together, tighter than was comfortable. Fingers digging into your hips, grasping you desperately. And, still clasped in your hands, the box with the spider, the glass edges pinching your chest as it was pressed between your two collarbones.

Peter’s eyes focused on the spider before finding your gaze.

“My parents,” you told him. “They…they were working on a project with the spiers. I don’t know what any of this means.”

“It has to mean something, right?” he asked.

You laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. It bubbled out of your mouth like Alka-Seltzer. Gwen’s body was still limp and bloody just over Peter’s shoulder. “I’m making all of this up, aren’t I? It only means something if it’s real.”

His hands found the box, contemplative. “This feels real, doesn’t it?”

You pressed your fingers against the cool glass, feeling its sharp, harsh edges. “It feels different than you.”

And this was true. Peter felt like the off-brand grocery store version of himself. A simulation of the real thing. You could feel the weight of the box underneath your hand, and gravity’s pull on it seemed to signify something to you. It was real. It was serious.

“What are you going to do?”

“Let it bite me.” The words were out of your mouth fast, before you could feel their weight.

“You don’t have to.” Of course, Peter had heard you falter.

 You placed your hand on the back of his neck, pushing his forehead harder against your own. “Yes, I do. I do this, or I die. I do this, or you die. I do this…” Gwen’s chest no longer rose nor fell.

 “There’s no guarantee this fixes everything.” He shuddered under your pressure.

You pulled back slightly, wanting to study his face. “You still don’t want me to.”

His features were soft. “I want you to live.”

“But you don’t want me to be bit.”

He looked down. “Is that too much to ask?”

_Yes_. But you both knew that was the answer.

He pulled in a shaking breath. “I don’t want you to go through what I did.”

“But I’ll have you.”

He flickered slightly. “What if you don’t?”

“Don’t say that.”

“No.” He was more firmly in front of you now, eyes pleading. “It’s a possibility. You can’t do this just for me. You have to be okay with every outcome.”

“I am.”

His eye twitched. “Then open the box.”

Your fingers didn’t move.

“You’re scared.”

Your face flushed. “No, I’m not.”

“It’s okay-”

“I’m not scared.”

He rubbed a hand along your elbow. “Listen-”

“I’m not scared, Peter!”

The box tumbled from between you, bouncing and tinkering against the ground. There was a gasp, and you waited for it to shatter, waited for the spider to escape, waited for all your hopes to break apart. Miraculously, though, the box rolled a few feet and then came to a stop, intact.

You closed your eyes, and a few tears escaped against your will. “Dammit.”

“C’mere.” He placed his hands on your cheeks, pulling you back into his grasp. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“I’m so scared.” Your voice, just a whisper. “I’m so scared, Peter.”

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

“I’m scared I’m going to do this and it’s not going to work.” You mumbled into his neck. “And…” but you couldn’t finish the rest of the sentence.

A few more tears ran into the collar of his shirt, and he held you tighter.

“Peter, I’m even more scared that it _is_ going to work.”

You stood there for a long moment, him holding you tightly, you holding onto him even tighter. You could count your breaths, in and out, feel his breath on your collarbone. You were trembling. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. But you had to.

You pulled back from Peter, and you saw his eyes change. He knew. He always knew.

“Be safe,” he told you. “Be careful.”

“I will.” But that was a promise you weren’t sure you could keep.

You wanted to ask him to help you, but somehow, even in this vision, you knew you had to be the one. This was your choice.

You picked up the damaged box. The spider was still scuttling around its enclosure. Your hands were shaking so much it trembled from side to side.

“Peter.” There was something you needed to tell him, now, it was important. “I love-”

But he stopped you with a kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft and tender. “Save it for when we’re together again,” he told you. “When I’m really here.”

You nodded, and then looked down at the box. With shaking hands, you lifted the lid. Like it had been born to do so, the spider walked careful steps onto your palm, paused for a moment, and then bit you.

***

At first- nothing

Then-

_Blake, sweaty and pink-faced, beneath you. He was smiling._

_“You’re a special one.” His hand reached up almost lazily to brush a piece of hair behind your ear. “You know that, right?”_

_His smile faded, just a fraction, before you realized he was waiting for a response._

_“You’re special,” you murmured back to him, before leaning down and kissing him like you had kissed no one before._

_“I want to be like you.” Peter and your palms, sweatily intertwined, walking to Mrs. Hartford’s junior year Psychology course. “I want to help you. Stop this from happening.”_

_Your fingers found a spot on his upper wrist, lightly bruised, fading fast. If you hadn’t seen him at 2:30 am, you would have guessed he just bumped it on something._

_“It’s always nothing.” You adjusted your back on your shoulder. “It’s a bunch of little ‘nothings’ that keep adding up.” You paused, but he wouldn’t look at you. “I’m scared for you, Peter.”_

_And you’d never forget how he squared his shoulders, chin up defiantly, like he was about to lead soldiers into a battle they’d never win instead of walk into a high school class. “I’m not scared for me.”_

_But he was a liar._

_“It wasn’t about you and Blake.”_

_A few days ago (or was it years, it was so hard to tell in this sort of fluid, half-time), you’d blinked open bleary eyes to see Peter lying next to you, and your forehead had the half-sticky, grubbiness of a fever recently broken. You were dying, that much was clear at this point. Tony had failed to call back, which Peter thought was a good thing (“It means he’s working on something! He’s just focused!”) but you had an aching suspicion it meant that it was over, because he was a coward and couldn’t face you to tell you the truth. You were dying, and for whatever reason it was pertinent Peter, the one living, understood that it wasn’t about, had never been about him and Blake._

_“What?” Peter opened his eyes to squint at you blearily. His face formed into immediate concern, those stress-lines his face knew so well. “Do you need something?”_

_“No, I just…” You reached for his hand under the covers, ignoring the clamminess of your palm against his. “I just need you to know that when the Pharmacist asked me to pick, I didn’t choose for Blake to die.”_

_He blinked. “I know.” His face remained impassive, unchanged except for the tightening of his eyes._

_“I just…” Your voice was wobbly again. “I just miss him. He didn’t deserve to die.”_

_“I know.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead._

_“And I would do anything to save him again. I would do anything to avenge his death.”_

_This stilled him, and you wondered if he could read your eyes as well as you could read his. His words were careful and slow. “I know.”_

_Blake Parkwood died by getting mugged and stabbed in an alley, and this was a lie._

_The mug tumbled out of your hands, hit the ground, bounced, shattered._

_It was after the funeral, after you had hugged his mother and pretended her eyes weren’t watching your hand grasped around Peter’s like a lifeline, where you had to answer the question, “What was he like, at the end?”_

_But you hadn’t been there. Even though she must have known, must have seen it in her eyes._

_You had to tell her Blake died alone. Because no one could know about Spider-Man. No one could know you were there. The Pharmacist wasn’t even a thought to this woman. And yet, he had killed her son._

_Blake bled out alone in an alleyway. Or, at least, he might as well._

_You stared at the glass in Peter’s apartment, and Peter stared at the glass, moving to sweep it up. You stopped his arm._

_“I lied to her.”_

_His forearm pushed lightly against your hand, but you were steadfast, holding him still, forcing to him to listen. “Blake’s mom. I lied to her. I told her Blake died alone. That no one was there.”_

_“Oh, Bug.” He shifted, tilting the broom up against the counter before guiding you around the glass, pulling you against his chest._

_“I lied to her,” you mumbled to his shirt. “I know I had to, but I lied to her, and it’s wrong.”_

_He rested his chin on top of your head. His adam’s apple bobbed against your forehead. His voice was careful, steady. “Are you angry about it?”_

_The question made you pause. “Angry? Why would I be angry?”_

_But as the words came out, you realized their truth, realized the rolling injustice of it all, realized the inherent wrongness that came from lying to a mother about how her son had been murdered, realized you wouldn’t go back and change it all now, you knew you couldn’t, but you had to do something, something, anything to cure this ache within you._

_“It just not fair.” And your jaw was clenched tight, because no one knew more about the unfairness of the world than Peter Parker._

_“I know.” And he was pressing something into your hands, a new mug, but you pushed it back at him, shaking your head._

_“It’s okay. I’m not thirsty.”_

_“It’s not for drinking.”_

_You paused. “What?”_

_He was steadfast. “Throw it.”_

_“What?”_

_He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. “Throw it. Break it. Smash it as hard as you can.”_

_“They’re your mugs, Peter.”_

_He took the glass from your hand, and, with deft skill, chucked it at the ground. Glass danced around your feet. His face was still impassive as he passed another mug towards you. “Your turn.”_

_You let the first one go. Watched it freefall for a second, weightless, before it disintegrated on impact. The next was in your hands almost immediately, and this one you chucked, putting some force behind it. Shrapnel flew up around your faces, but you were unflinching, unafraid._

_The dishes kept coming, pressed into your palms before the previous one had even hit the ground, and there was a storm of shattering glass and a crunching underfoot, and your hands were bleeding but you didn’t care because you had never felt this kind of roiling heat, this kind of burning passion to destroy before, and there needed to be an outlet, needed to be a release, because Blake was in his grave and he wasn’t coming back and you lied, smash, you lied, smash, you lied you lied you lied._

_You looked up._

_Peter, steady as a rock, ready to hand you a plate._

_You couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t throw anymore._

_“I’m sorry.” It was just a whisper, but it was enough._

_Peter squeezed your shoulder. “He knows.”_

***

You awoke in the rubble of 1902 Jameson Lane.

“How do you feel?”

Baby Blake, the ghost, the vision, was hummering before you.

You closed your eyes. You breathed in. “Not that different.”

“But it had to work.” His voice sounded petulant, like a little child.

You gingerly pushed yourself into a seated position, shaking dirt and debris out from your hair. Maybe you were different. You felt…decidedly unsuperpowery, but you also weren’t vomiting blood. So that was a plus. “Maybe it just cured me. Maybe it didn’t give me powers.”

You weren’t sure whether you should be relieved or disappointed.

Blake looked unsure before you.

You pushed yourself to standing, feeling a strength you hadn’t felt in days. You were steady, you were okay. “Blake.” You opened your arms. “Come here.”

He stepped into you, pressing a cheek against your shoulder.

He didn’t feel completely like Blake. Maybe a memory. But a memory was enough. “You have to leave soon, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“You can’t stay with me?”

He looked up at you, shaking his head. His eyes were glittering, full of tears.

You pulled him tighter against you.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he mumbled. “Older me. He knows. He knows it’s not your fault.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to tell your mom.”

You felt him stiffen underneath your hands. “I’d like that.”

You held him for just seconds, or maybe it was a million years, until he flickered slightly, and pulled away.

“You have to go?”

He nodded.

“I can’t leave you.”

He shook his head. “But you have to. I haven’t met you yet. I still have years to live.”

“I think I have to go too.”

He nodded. “Yes, you do. Be careful.”

You clenched your hands into fists, trying to hide their trembling. “I’ll try.”

And you left Blake for a second time, though you weren’t sure how. Left him standing amidst the rubble of a fallen era, a different time. Left him with the promise of a future, with the promise of a tragedy. And yet, there he stood, proud and unafraid.

You were nearly to the car when he called out your name.

You turned, and his palm was clenched around something, arm outstretched.

“You can’t forget these.”

He pressed them into your hand.

“Web-shooters? But I…”

He covered your palm with his own, pressing them more decidedly into your hand. “They’re yours.”

“Blake-”

His eyes were earnest. “Go. Your friends need you. I need you.”

“Okay.”

So you got in the car, web-shooters still wrapped tightly in your palm, and drove until Blake was nothing but a speck in your rearview mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and happy monday, loves :) hope you enjoyed this chapter- i enjoyed writing it! things are about to get CRAZY next chapter (still haven't decided if there's going to be a body count yet or no), so buckle up your seatbelts ;) 
> 
> it's crazy...i'm thinking there's only like 4 or so chapters left?? wild to think this is going to eventually come to an end : , )
> 
> anyway, as always, thanks for reading, lmk what you think in the comments, and i hope you have a super spectacular fantastic week <3


	25. to meet again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the reader came back from the dead, talked to hallucination peter and ghost blake, and got bit by a radioactive spider (and that's what you missed on glee)

Never had you felt so alive.

There was something invigorating about coming back from the dead not just once, but twice. Once might have been an accident. It was a fluke you had been chosen by Thanos’ snap. It was your parents’ hard work that had been brought back. But it wasn’t a fluke that you had been chosen for this second, far more painful, death. You had been targeted. Your parents had been targeted, Blake had been targeted, and now Peter and Gwen were in danger. It was no accident you had been brought back this time or the latter. It wasn’t fate or coincidence. It was destiny.

Your knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. The leather creaked under your grip. You were hurtling around back alley streets and down dubious shortcuts. There was only one place you were headed now. The warehouse. A small part of your brain screamed to be cautious, to not wreck into someone in your manic driving state, to not get pulled over, or worse, not to lead the police to the scene of the crime. No mortal lives could be endangered in this endeavor. But you never came close to wrecking. It was as though you could sense the cars coming from far off, could tell where cops were patrolling the area. The adrenaline coursing through your limbs must be helping you somehow.

Part of you was scared. Scared to face the man who had killed your parents, had killed Blake. Scared something would happen to Peter or Gwen. And, though you didn’t want to admit it, wanted to be brave before anything else, you were scared something would happen to you. In every one of your envisioned scenarios of this moment, you burst into battle swinging from a web, imbibed with the powers of Spider-Man, ready to kick ass.

Instead, you pulled up to battle in a blue Honda Civic. Shaking, but strong.

The warehouse was just as eerie and quiet as the last time you had visited. Today, however, it was illuminated. The great glass paneled windows glowed a soft yellow orange. It almost had a homey feel. This was the place that Blake died. This was the place Peter had come close.

You stepped out of the car. The door thudded shut. It hadn’t locked all the way. But that was no matter now, there wasn’t much difference whether it was open, shut, or somewhere in-between. You had to keep moving.

You may not have super speed or strength. But something roared inside of you, thundered through your veins. You felt _different._ You were scared. You were strong. You took a trembling breath, reaching into your pocket for the web shooters. You fumbled getting them around your wrists, hands shaking, but then there they were and there you were, miraculously alive, and you had to save Peter and Gwen. There was nothing else left. There was nothing else left.

You made your way up to the door. You had never done this before- the whole, bust in and save everyone thing. Your heart was racing, pumping through your veins, pumping into your limbs, but with every step you felt stronger, surer. Everything was becoming clearer, you could see everything ahead of you perfectly, both figuratively and literally. The rust on the door handle, the scent of blood, of sweat and adrenaline.

The handle fell off with a shower of red flakes. You placed a palm on the door itself, pushing gently. It creaked for a moment before toppling backwards into the space. There was a _boom_ , dust flying up around the fallen structure, and then everything settled back to silence.

You stepped forward into the warehouse, feet padding along the pamphlet still carpeting the ground. You knew Peter and Gwen were up ahead. You could hear their heartbeats. It was strange, almost as though you could sense them. Sense their fear.

You clenched your hands tighter into fists, fingers brushing the web shooters, the motion giving you a bit of comfort. You could do this. You had to do this.

Your steps faltered.

Peter and Gwen were up ahead, you could see them, though they were the product of some sick joke. They were both tied up in those grey metal chairs, hands and legs bound together, heads lolling forward. Spread equidistant apart just like…just like Peter and Blake had been. You blood ran cold.

You forced your legs to keep moving, stumbling into the center of the massive space. The three of you seemed insignificant here, tied up or recently resurrected, spotlighted beneath the flickering light bulbs overhead. The room was eerily silent, the only noises of water dripping or wind howling amplified by the rafters. Please let them be alright, please let it not be too late, please let-

“Y/N?”

Peter’s voice was soft, clouded in disbelief. “You’re alive?” He said it with the tender tremble of someone trying not to cry.

You ran to him.

“I’ll get you out.” You made to fumble for the rope binding his legs, but he was shaking his head.

“Hey, hey, wait. Just look at me.”

So you paused, placing your hands on his shoulders, and he tilted his forehead to press it against yours.

His breathing was ragged. “It thought you were dead.”

You let out a trembling breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “I thought I was dead.”

His eyes were squeezed shut and he pressed his forehead harder into your own. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay now.”

“Are you alright?” You pulled back to look at him critically. If he had sustained any minor injuries, they must have already healed. The only evidence of any fighting was some dried blood on his upper lip. You reached out to run a finger along his cupid’s bow. “He hasn’t hurt you?”

“I’m okay.” He shifted a bit in the chair. “He knocked us out, beat us around a little bit, but I think we’re alright. Whatever he gave me suppressed my powers.”

“And Gwen?” You surveyed her limp form, her hair drooping forward with her lolling head.

“She should be okay. I think.”

You couldn’t tell whether he was lying or not, and you didn’t dare attempt to read his eyes and find out. Gwen hadn’t asked to be a part of this. She was even less culpable than Blake; she had just been trying to help you. And now she was kidnapped and unconscious in the lair of a serial killer.

“I need to get you guys out of here.”

“It’ll be-” Peter started, but the hair on the back of your neck stood straight up, and you spun, keeping Peter and Gwen at your back as the Pharmacist walked into view.

“Going so soon?” He looked so innocuous, so…deceivingly ordinary, it was hard to justify the fear he struck into your heart. Just a wiry old man, grey hair, smile lines. There was a dagger in one hand, a syringe in the other.

You took a step forward, trying to gain distance between him and Peter and Gwen, keep them out of the equation. The Pharmacist’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I must say, Y/N, I didn’t expect you to make it here in such good condition. In fact, I didn’t expect you to make it here at all.” He took another step forward, closing the gap between you. His eyes lit up with a fire of excitement. “This way makes it harder for me, I suppose. But also, more fun.”

 He reached up a hand, looking to caress your cheek. But, before you could stop yourself, before you could think of the consequences, you snapped a hand up to grab his wrist, preventing him from touching you. He pushed against your force for a moment, but you pushed back. His hand trembled but didn’t move closer.

There was beat of shocked silence. Peter gave a whoop from his chair.

The Pharmacist’s eyes flickered to Peter, and then back at you. His face broke out into smile, and then he gave a surprised laugh. “Well, I certainly didn’t see _that_ coming.”

You felt his next movement before you saw it, but it was too late, you were distracted by Peter, and a needle pinched into your thighs. The liquid rushed into your veins. It was too late. You might have lost.

He loosed his grip on your shoulders and you stumbled backwards, your leg going numb where he had stuck you, forcing you to fall onto the concrete below. Your frantic heart did nothing to help you, only working to spread the poison faster throughout your body.

Peter gave a yell as you crumpled to the ground, and you watched him through hazy eyes. “What did you do to her?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re a bastard.” Peter struggled against his bonds as the Pharmacist approached him. “A straight bastard, and-”

He went limp, eyes closing. The Pharmacist turned back to you, syringe still in hand, grim smile on his face. “That might have been overkill, I admit.”

You couldn’t say anything, trying to catalogue which of your limbs were still in working order. The prognosis wasn’t looking great.

“I’m not completely sure how that will work on you now,” he conceded. “But it’ll be all the more fun to see.”

You suddenly felt incredibly foolish, young and alone on the floor of a warehouse, with nothing but a pair of old web shooters to use against a serial killer who had just injected you with a round of poison cocktail that could very well kill you.

“What do you want?” you growled through drugged lips, ignoring the slight lisp. “I did what you said. I came here to save my friends. So let them go.”

The Pharmacist raised an eyebrow. “Oh, did I say that?” He crossed to a still unconscious Gwen, reaching out to run a hand through her hair.

You wanted to rip his hand right off, but your limbs had stopped responding ages ago, and your fingers just twitched in response. You were nothing more than a limp blob on the ground.

His fingers ran through Gwen’s bangs tenderly. “I know I promised you something earlier, I know I did. Your life for theirs, in a way. And I think I’ll uphold that end of the bargain. Partly.”

“Then let them go.”

“Mmmm.” The Pharmacist shrugged. “See, here’s the issue with that. I’ve been working on something. You might remember from our last meeting. A drug to mimic the Reaping. Put the universe back into balance, redo the work that once was done. It would attach to random organisms and target them until they die.” His eyes fixed on your prone form. “You’ve been the only chosen one to survive testing.”

“I’ll tell you how I survived,” you said, reading the interest in his eyes. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Oh?” he smiled, swinging the machete under Gwen’s chin. Your heart knocked around in your chest. Not Gwen, not gwen, notgwen. “You’re scared of this?”

“Please, please, I’ll do anything.”

There was something changing in your limbs. Through they were mostly numb, you were starting to feel again, just slightly, in your toes. You could twitch your fingers if you focused hard enough. Something was shifting.

“See, that’s the unfortunate part.” He dug the machete in, just deep enough that blood dotted along Gwen’s neck. “Because you took so long to get here, I just assumed you weren’t coming. And I planned another experiment for these two.” He released Gwen to pull out what looked like a grenade. “It’s the new Reaping. One concentrated dose of this into the city’s air filtration system, and all of New York is breathing in the new world. According to my calculations, it should only poison half the population. And they’ll die a slow, painful death while others look on and wonder what they did to get so _lucky_ to survive.”

“Peter’s right, you _are_ a bastard.”

He laughed. “Don’t you want to feel lucky?

“What do you want from me? I’ll do anything.”

He smiled. “That’s sweet. It really is. But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. The first test for this little thing? It’s today. It’s right now. And I tell you what, if you survive me again, I’ll let you go.”

“No.” You couldn’t let him do this. The odds were too great. Gwen. Peter. You. One of you could be chosen. Two. All of you could die.

“Unfortunately, no isn’t an option.”

“No.”

But it was.

The web shooters wrapped around your wrist.

The Pharmacist dragged Peter and Gwen side by side, facing you.

“Of course, even if one of them does survive, I’ll have to kill them myself. Just for evidence clearing.”

He pet Peter’s curls with one hand.

“I’m sure you understand.”

The web shooters clicked into place.

“Any last words for the two of them?”

“Don’t do this.”

His eyes narrowed. “No.”

You aimed a web shooter at the hand that held the grenade.

You took a breath.

You shot.

It was as if time stood still. The web sailed through the air. Perfect aim. There was a tinkling sound, and the web wrapped around his wrist with such velocity it sent him tumbling backwards, pinning him against the wall.

You breathed out.

It had worked.

But there was a hissing noise, and the Pharmacist smiled. The grenade was on the ground, knocked out of his pinned hand, spewing out gas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy sunday lovelies <3
> 
> thank you as always for being so patient with me getting chapters up. i'm p sure i've got most of the plot figured out now, and i think there's going to be about 2-3 chaps left. how do you think everything will wrap up? will there be more death??? :))) honestly im just happy i finally got the web shooters to fruition (speaking of which, i apologize for sometimes typing web-shooters and other times just web shooters, it is what it is).
> 
> lmk what you think in the comments or leave a kudos if ya want. regardless, pls have an awesome week and be gentle with yourselves :)


	26. level up

You were moving before the grenade had even hit the ground. One more web for the Pharmacist, to stick him more securely to the wall. The web flew out of the shooter like it was second nature, sticking his torso to the surface without you even thinking twice about aiming. You didn’t have time to stop and think. And yet…it had stuck perfectly anyways.

You charged forward, holding your breath against the haze of gas. There was no time to untie Peter or Gwen. You grabbed the backs of the chairs they were tied to, one in each hand, and ran towards the door. Though some part of you recognized you were running faster than you had ever run before, faster than you could have ever run before, it felt natural. The chairs created so much friction they sparked along the concrete floor, but you just tensed your arms, holding them steady.

You burst out into the fresh air, gasping into the daylight. You set Peter and Gwen on the concrete and then got to work untying their restraints, pushing Peter’s hands aside as he struggled. “Let me.”

Reaching down, you gently tugged on the ropes. They fell apart in your fingers like they were made of sand. You wiped the frayed bits off your palm and felt Peter’s eyes on you, on your fingers, now covered in rope. It wasn’t natural. But he said nothing.

“Are you okay? How do you feel?”

He shook his head. “Gwen.”

Gwen was coughing next to him, beginning to stir. You yanked her ropes aside as well, and she slumped forward, still hacking. Peter was up beside you, wiping blood off his face and supporting Gwen.

“Gwen? Gwen, it’s okay.”

You wanted to stay here forever. To treasure this moment, the three of you together, safe for the moment, having been inches from imminent death. But there was something greater you had to do. You couldn’t let this opportunity pass, this threat remain active.

You touched Peter’s shoulder. “Stay here.”

“What?” He turned, face confused.

But you were already gone, running back inside.

The warehouse was thick with green gas.

You tried not to breathe instinctually, but the logical part of your brain knew it was too late. You had already been exposed to the chemical. If it was going to kill you, it would kill you. At this point, holding your breath would hinder you more than it could plausibly save you. So, despite every instinct inside you screaming the opposite, you took a stammering breath of the gas covering the base of the warehouse floor in a thick fog.

You tripped over something on the way back to the pinned Pharmacist. The machete. You picked up the weapon, grasping its handle in sweaty palms.

You kept walking forward.

He was smiling, the bastard. Stuck up against the wall, one web pinning a hand, the other his chest. Though you knew from experience the webs were nearly impossible to break free from, he wasn’t even struggling. He was just grinning, like he was satisfied.

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Your hand tightened around the machete, and you took a tentative step forward.

“It’s fair,” he shrugged. “A life for a life. Or several lives for a life, I suppose. I’ll accept it.”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

His eyes twitched, twinkled. “Don’t you?”

You took a step backwards. “If I don’t kill you, you’ll keep killing. You’ll spread this poison out over all of New York, over any city you choose. If I don’t stop you now, I can’t guarantee anyone else ever will.”

“It’s lonely, isn’t it? Being the superhero?”

The gas was becoming thicker, swirling its way up to your knees, several tendrils curling up your thighs, tickling your chest.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He laughed, and it was a hacking, rattling sound. “Come on, now.”

“You’re stalling.” Your hand was still around the machete, but it was trembling.

He fixed his gaze on you. “Let’s not pretend. You know you’re different now. You don’t think that makes you lonely? Now you’ll just have your broken boyfriend resenting you. If he isn’t dead.”

“Don’t talk about Peter.”

“Don’t be obtuse.” He wasn’t even fighting against the restraints. He coughed blood, wheezing on the smoke. “You’ve got powers. You think he’s gonna like that?”

“You don’t know anything about him.” And yet, you remembered those final, coherent moments with Peter. Remembering how scared you had been. How he begged you not to go searching for any spiders. But you weren’t changed…were you?

“Oh, I know everything about you.” His eyes twinkled with knowledge. “I got you to come here, didn’t I? I know you weren’t close to your parents. I know you dusted out of existence the first time with the rest of them. You’re weak-boned, weak-willed. You weren’t strong enough to piece back together all the broken parts of you and Peter, because somewhere along the way they all got mixed up together, so you glued back parts of his leg bone on your hips and he has pieces of your cheek along his elbow. And you know what that creates? Friction. You can’t be together. I know you broke up, I know he left you, just like he would leave you again. You got together with that boy, the one I killed. You didn’t love him, even though you said you did. I killed him, and you pretended it made you strong. But it just made you weak.”

You blinked and you were in front of him, a fist around his throat, breathing in his cigarette breath. The machete squeezed tight in your other hand. You scared yourself. You hadn’t remembered moving.

The Pharmacist wheezed another chuckle. “I’ll be a little disappointed if you kill me, I have to admit. I wouldn’t get to create the second reaping.”

“I’m not weak.” But your hand was trembling. You weren’t grasping his throat hard now, but he was pinned down, he couldn’t move, it would be so easy.

“They’ve got it all wrong,” he said. “It’s not the strong who survive, it’s the weak. And you’re a survivor. A weak little girl.”

You twitched your fingers and his neck constricted underneath your hand. His face began to turn pink. You had barely moved, barely even squeezed, and he was already choking. You could do it, you had to do it, it would be so easy.

“If you let me live, I’ll kill everyone you love,” he wheezed out. There was blood coming out of his mouth, still. It was you or the gas, you didn’t know. “I’ll make sure of it. I have to show you how weak humans are, how weak you are.”

You squeezed harder, and his face turned purple. You let out a sob.

“I don’t want to do this.”

He smiled, and his voice was so quiet, just a grunt. “But you will.”

You closed your eyes. For Blake, for your parents, for Gwen and Peter. For all the people who had told you you weren’t enough, that you were never enough, that you were weak and meaningless and inconsequential, and would never amount to anything. For the people who had told you you were too broken to succeed. You had to prove them wrong. You had to show them there was more to you. You were a human, you were a human, you were a human, you were more than they saw, you just had to show them, you just had to squeeze harder, just a bit harder, just a twitch and then-

“Y/N!”

You whipped around, grip loosening around the Pharmacist’s neck.

It was Peter, stumbling through the gas, battered and bruised. His wounds weren’t healing like they usually did.

“Peter, get back outside!”

But he shook his head doggedly, limping closer.

“You idiot!” You were borderline hysterical now, sobbing, hand still around the Pharmacist’s throat. “Get out of the gas! Get away from him!”

“No.” He shook his head, finally reaching you. “I can’t let you do this.”

“I have to,” you pleaded. “You don’t understand, he killed everyone. He will kill everyone if I let him live.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder but didn’t move to remove your hand. “This isn’t who you are.”

“I have to do this. I have to.”

He shook his head resolutely. “No. You always have a choice. Always.”

It would be so easy. Just a squeeze of your fingers. One quick time and Blake’s death was avenged, your parents avenged, and you would be clear from blame and would have saved Peter in all the ways you had never been able to before. You could do it. You could.

You let go of his neck.

You stepped away.

Peter held out his arms, and you fell into them. His arms were home, and safe, and he still smelled like vanilla and cheap aftershave. You sobbed, just once, before turning and webbing the Pharmacist to the wall excessively.

“Let’s leave him.” Peter took your hand in his. “Gwen needs you.”

You intertwined your fingers with his and then turned, running back out the door.

Gwen was a crumpled heap on the concrete. Awkwardly on all fours, knees splayed behind her with one hand pressed in front of her, trembling, while the other arm was propped on her elbow. Her head was bowed as she shook.

“Gwen?” You released Peter’s hand to kneel by her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She raised her head up, taking most of her strength. Her face was covered in blood. It flowed out of her nose, dripping from the corners of her eyes, and after she lifted her face, she gagged, retching red bile onto the ground.

Your eyes, wild with worry, found Peter’s. Found what you feared when you met his gaze. The Pharmacist’s gas. It had gotten to her. She was going to die.

“It’s going to be okay,” you heard yourself saying. You had come too far for this now. You couldn’t give up Gwen. You wouldn’t give up Gwen.

Gwen threw up a fountain of blood. It spattered against the ground, splashing crimson onto your wrists. She moaned, swooning forward.

“Here,” you fumbled with the web shooters around your wrist, finally getting one off and practically throwing it at Peter. “Here, you can pick her up, and and you can swing with her somewhere, it’ll be faster than taking the car, you can swing her to the hospital or to Tony’s or just just somewhere, Peter, please, Peter, why aren’t you taking them?”

Because he was standing still, his face frozen in a frown, hands open to where you were insistently pressing the web shooter into his palm, but his fingers not closing around it. His troubled gaze focused on you, “Y/N, I can’t do that.”

“Why?” and it was practically a scream, because you refused to leave from this place with another body, you refused.

“I don’t have powers. Whatever he gave me…”

“It hasn’t worn off?”

He shook his head, and then shoved the web shooter back over in your direction. “you need to do this. You swing with her.”

“What?”

He strapped the web shooter back onto your wrist when you hadn’t yet taken it back. “You can do it. You know you can.”

“Peter, I’m not ready for this, I’m not ready for this, I can’t let Gwen die, I-”

He placed his hands on your shoulders, holding you steady. “You’re going to save Gwen. You’ve got to try.”

You picked Gwen up from the concrete. She was limp in your hands, but it was as though she weighed nothing. You knew you wouldn’t have any troubling carrying her.

“Come on.” Peter lead you to the warehouse ladder, the one that climbed up onto the roof. “It’ll be easier if you start up here.”

You shifted Gwen onto your back, securing her to you with some web fluid. “She won’t fall?” you asked, though you knew she wouldn’t.

Peter shook his head, nudging you up the ladder. You climbed as fast as you could, hearing Peter’s comforting steps climbing beneath you as well.

“Tony’s compound isn’t far from here.” He squinted out at the horizon, hair buffeting in the wind. “See that line of trees right there? There’s a bunch of places you can swing, it’ll lead you right in.”

The places to swing had been built for him, you knew. A place for young Peter to swing all the way to the compound if he wanted. Probably unused for years now.

“What about you?”

“I’ll meet you there.” His features were soft as he turned to you. “I’ll be right behind you in the car, I promise.”

You opened your mouth, but he stopped you with a tender kiss.

“Don’t be scared. I promise it’ll come easy. I know you can do this- Gwen needs you.”

“Okay. Okay.” You took a few deep breaths.

“Close your eyes.”

You did as he said.

“Now feel where you should shoot.”

You felt something, ahead of you, an anchor point that was strong, that could hold you as you swung forward.

“Now-”

But you had already shot, felt the web fling from your wrist, flying through the air before securing around a telephone pole.

Peter smiled a tender smile you couldn’t quite make sense of. “Now jump.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik what you're thinking...an update one week later instead of like two or three?! truly exciting.
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed this update as much as i enjoyed writing it! as always, pls leave me a comment to lmk what ya think (even if it's just a keysmash, i feel that), but also as always know that i am wishing you a sunny and awesome week ahead (and s/o to all my peeps heading into finals season w/me, we got this) <3


	27. moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: there aren't/won't be any endgame spoilers in this fic, and pls don't leave any in the comments below. thanks!

You had been born to fly.

You swung like you had done it a million times before. Like it was second nature. Gwen was featherlight on your back, so easy to carry you could almost forget she was there. Almost. You had wondered if it would be hard to swing, to see each place to connect to before it was too late. But each anchor point loomed before you, almost glowing with intention, and it was obvious where to swing your weight forward, to keep going. Off tree branches, light posts. How did you know how to do this? You’d never done it before, but the swinging came naturally. You didn’t even think about the right places to stick, the right places to release, how to throw your weight through the air, any of it. You just did. You swung and flipped and floated like you had been doing it since the day you were born.

Some part of your internal gps must have been keeping you on track to the compound, because eventually bright white poles cropped up, evenly spaced throughout the trees. They were constructed similarly to the light posts you had swung off in the warehouse district. Tall and white, with a long arm sticking out at the perfect height to swing. The poles were placed equidistant apart, just far enough to fly between them with ease. As you followed them in closer to the concrete walls of the compound, you thought of Peter. A fifteen-year-old Peter, swinging in to hang with his mentor, smile on his face, whooping as he tumbled through the air.

They brought you to rest on gravel by a large concrete wall. Rocks shifted under your feet as you walked up to the bunker-style doors, peering upwards. Gwen was limp on your back. You tried not to think the worst. Tried not to think the worst, though it was nearly impossible. The bunker doors were stoically shut.

You hadn’t thought this far ahead. In your mind, you would have swung literally right into the compound and everything would have worked out perfectly. But this was real life. Gwen coughed wetly behind you. You didn’t have time for this.

You raised a hand to the massive doors, though even trying felt foolish. The knock echoed out into the trees. You breathed out. There was no response.

“Hello?” You sounded alone. You refused to be alone. Adrenaline still burned through your veins. Its power was slowly vanishing though, leaving you more exhausted with each breath. You knocked again. Nothing. Your next yell was more of a sob. “Hello?”

No. No. You had to hold it together. There was no breaking apart while work remained undone. Just keep it together, just a little longer, for everyone, for Gwen.

“Hello? Anyone?”

Silence.

“Please?”

You banged on the doors.

Gwen groaned from your back.

“Tony Stark, you better let me in, you bastard!”

Silence.

Gwen heaved. You pulled her from your back, and she threw up a stream of blood onto your chest. Sinking to the gravel, you cradled her against your body. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Gwen, don’t worry.” You wouldn’t cry, there wasn’t time for that. Just focus on breathing and holding her. “It’s okay, look at me, I’ve got you, it’s okay.” Taking in her final moments.

A metallic screeching, and the doors were rolling open before you. A rumpled Tony Stark silhouetted in their opening.

“I made you a cure. It looks like it’s a little late for you to use it.”

You refused to take your eyes from Gwen’s face. “Can you save her?”

He pulled in a long, shaking breath. “It’s about time I did some saving around here.”

***

Gwen was taken from your arms. Someone led you to a room and wrapped you in a blanket, placed you on a couch. Windows dark, shades drawn. Was this the same place they’d put you after Blake died? Did Stark have random rooms to store grieving people in? There was activity around you, people attempting to shine lights in your eyes or bandage the few cuts remaining on your arms or legs. You ushered them away. The cuts were healing as you watched. You needed to be alone with your thoughts.

So, you were alone, perched on a couch somewhere, breathing hard. Staring at the web shooters still wrapped around your wrists. You didn’t move. You didn’t let yourself think of a situation in which Gwen didn’t get cured. You didn’t think about the blood on her hands, on your chest before you’d changed clothes. You didn’t think about how, not too long ago, it had been you with blood on your hands. How something happened, and you changed forever. At some point, you weren’t sure if it had been minutes or years, Tony ghosted by the door. His face was tight, but something twitched when he looked at you.

You lifted your chin to stare at him, squaring your jaw. You could take it. But he would have to say it. You would make him say it.

His voice was tired, but triumphant. “She’ll be okay.”

Your fingernails released from where they’d been clenching your fist. “What?”

“I can’t believe I did it, but I found a fucking antidote.” He leaned against the doorframe like he needed support, and suddenly he seemed a thousand years old. A hand came up to massage the bridge of his nose. “She’ll be okay.”

You were lighter than air. You were suddenly free. You didn’t feel ecstatic, because that just wasn’t what you felt after you learned that your best friend really wasn’t going to end up poisoned to death by a serial killer. You felt fragile, breakable. But that was better than the steel walls you had been preparing to build up.

“Thank you.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, making to move away from the doorway.

“No, really, Tony. Thank you for everything.” He paused, eyes looking at you in surprise. But there was something you had to say. “I mean it. You’ve given us everything, and we’re grateful.”

Something twitched in his face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you the antidote sooner. I’m sorry…” You saw him studying your frame- hunched over, head bowed, web shooters on.

“You did what you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

You shook your head. “Yes, it was.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose again. “Where’s Peter?”

“He should be here soon. He’s coming.”

He stayed in the doorway a moment longer, and you looked up to meet his eyes. Read the unspoken question there.

“He’s okay.”

Tony nodded, and you watched tension melt from his frame.

“He still loves you, you know.”

His eyes snapped up to study yours.

“I wasn’t lying when I said we were grateful. It’s the truth.”

You watched him choose his next words carefully, “Tell him I’m still here for him, okay?” You nodded. “And that he can come talk to me, when he’s ready. If he wants to.”

“I’ll tell him,” you promised, and Tony nodded again.

“Thank you.” He disappeared from the doorway, and you were left alone once more in stillness and silence.

You thought of everything and nothing all at once. No singular thought crossed your mind, but the weight of it all still wrapped around your head and shoulders like an oppressive smog. You were tired. You didn’t have the energy to move or think or do. You just needed to rest. To have a day in which something wasn’t changed forever.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway. “Bug?”

You ran to him.

He caught you in his arms like there was no other place you belonged, and when you held him, it was with all the practice of years of knowing him and loving him and being his, even if he hadn’t always been yours. Your forehead pressed into the soft flesh of his shoulder, and you felt his solid presence against you, squeezing you back, _im yours, im here, im yours, imhereimyoursimhere._ You could have stayed forever, feeling your rib cages rise and fall in unison. Held by another person. Known.

He shifted so he could hold your cheeks in his hand. His eyes were shimmering, and his voice wavered, small, whispered, “You’re okay?”

You nodded, squaring your jaw, staying strong.

But you trembled.

You reached up to wipe the tears off his cheeks, and he pulled you back into him, letting you cry into the hollow of his neck as he caressed the baby hairs at the base of yours. His voice was low, rumbling, as he tucked his head against yours, rocking slightly. “It’s okay.”

You were gasping, sobbing louder than you could remember crying in recent memory, and you could feel Peter, steady beside you and crying, rubbing his face against your shoulder. “Here.” He guided you back down to the couch, and you sat backwards woodenly, legs like pins. He stood in front of your knees and ever so carefully lifted your wrists, undoing the web shooters with practiced ease. They dropped onto the leather of the couch with a dull thud, the sound belying the object’s true weight. Peter’s hand stayed holding yours, fingers tracing the soft skin on the underside of your wrists. His head was bowed, and a tear dripped off his chin.

When he looked back up at you, there was something different in his eyes. Something whole. He was finally solidly there with you instead of flitting through a thousand different realities, a thousand different responsibilities. It’s not that the change hadn’t been gradual, it had, surely, but this moment, he stood before you, holding your hands, and you knew he would never let them go again.

You tugged on his fingers, pulling him down to the couch as well. You shifted, adjusting so you were supported against one end, dragging him in-between your legs, back laying against your chest, his head resting just underneath your chin. Closing an eye, you hooked an ankle around his calf, breathing in his scent. You still hiccupped with a few sobs, but your fingers were tangled in his, and you were safe.

Your voice cracked with disuse. “I’m not crying because I’m scared. Or because I regret something.”

He turned, flipping so he was facing you, belly on belly. “I know.” His eyes watched your fingers intertwining. He waited a few breaths. “The Pharmacist is dead.”

“Oh.” Some distant part of you felt relieved.

Peter swallowed, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Yeah. I think it was the gas. It got him as well.”

You just happy to never have to think about him again. Never waste a single minute of your life on him again.

Peter laid his head down on your sternum, pressing a kiss into the freckle on your chest. He paused for a moment, lips hovering above your skin, and closed his eyes. He shuddered slightly, tears trailing down to gather in his lips. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

You ran a hand through his curls. “Me either.”

He looked up, eyes drinking you in. Your hand came to cup his ear, thumb tracing along his cheek, brushing away stray tears. He was soft and beautiful. He was yours.

“I love you.”

And this time you meant it.

Not that you hadn’t meant it before. But before it had slipped out. It had slipped out unwittingly and at the wrong times and when it shouldn’t have been said, and it wasn’t that you hadn’t meant it before, but it was that you hadn’t said it with such certainty, with such full knowledge of what love was and what it meant. Before you had said it as a secret, but now it was a promise. A promise to him, that you would keep loving him forever and ever, because there was no foreseeable way you could ever stop.

He kissed you.

And it was like you had never kissed before. Not because it was somehow sexier, here, a tangle of limbs covered in grime and blood and sewage, not because you had gotten time to practice or reunited with some passionate lovers embrace. No. It was tender and soft and his lips just graced yours, just gently touched, but it was like you had never kissed before because he was firm and solid and _there_ under your hands. And you didn’t need him to say it because you already knew. He would never leave again.

When he pulled back, he whispered it into your neck. “I love you.” He kissed your ear. “I love you.” Your collarbone. “I love you.” Your fingertips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You sat up, pushing him backwards so he fell against the couch, and it was you between his legs. “Let’s stay here a while.”

“Okay.” His smile was soft, tender.

You wrapped your arms around him, lowering down so you could place your ear on his chest, right over his heart. Hear it, strong and steady, beneath your head. You closed your eyes, letting your body relax against his, felt his hands come up to stroke your head, run fingers through your hair.

You were here. You were with Peter. It was okay.

“I love you.”

And you would mean it for the rest of your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow :,) i think there's going to be one chapter left after this, but "wanderer" is quickly coming to a close. ngl this was one of my fav chapters to write so far, it just felt so cathartic. i hope you enjoyed the light finally shining through at the end of the tunnel if you've been waiting for a while.
> 
> i read back through this fic before writing this most recent chapter, and i was reminded (amongst noticing all of my typos/word slips that i will one day edit) how much fun this fic has been to write. im hoping to get the final chapter up in around two weeks, and i'm also hoping for it to be longer as well to have everything get a nice finale.
> 
> if you are currently struggling through finals like me, i wish you all the luck. if this made you feel some sort of way, pls drop me a comment below, they really motivate me to keep going <3 either way tho, have an awesome beginning of may!


	28. known

Gwen stumbled out of the bathroom, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She made it all the way to the coffee maker, clanging a mug out of the cabinets and pulling out the creamer before she turned to meet your raised eye.

Her face flushed slightly. “Morning.”

“I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest for a week.” You tried to adopt a stern expression, twisting back and forth on a barstool.

She raised a defiant eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest for two more days.”

“That was precautionary. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me either.” She spread her hands out by her sides in a ‘look at me,’ gesture. “I’ve been _cured_ , baby.”

You both laughed, belying the weight of the moment. Gwen’s face softened, and her eyebrows pulled together. “You’re cured too, right?”

“I think so.” You studied your fingers, remembering how, not too long ago, they had been covered in your own blood. You would never need curing again.

Gwen seemed to realize this as well, eyes studying you as she fumbled with her coffee mug. “So, you’re different now?” Some of the coffee slopped over the side of the cup. “Like Peter?”

Peter’s powers never had come back after your last visit with the Pharmacist, though it had only been a few days. He had never lost them like this before. You didn’t bother correcting Gwen.

“I guess so. It seems the same, or at least very similar.”

She took a breath, and you expected her to be timid, but this was Gwen and you should have known better. “It scares me. You being like him.” She set the mug on the counter. “If there’s anything I’ve learned over this past week, it’s that whatever Peter was dealing with before, it was serious. It was life and death.”

You gave her a nod.

She frowned. “I don’t want that for you.”

“It’s not like that,” you told her, though you weren’t sure you were being entirely truthful. You weren’t sure what any of this was like yet. In most ways you still felt relatively normal. In others, it was as though your entire world had shifted. You could see the baby hairs on Gwen’s neck fluttering in the air conditioning, you could hear the dog’s heartbeat in the apartment next door. Though you weren’t out on the regular swinging around showing villains who was who ( _though_ , a small voice reminded you,  _you could be_ ), everything had shifted, changed. “Well, actually, I’m not sure what it’s like yet.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You crossed the kitchen, pulling her into your arms. She hugged you back just as fiercely, just as strongly. This was not a girl who had nearly died a few days prior. Gwen was made of something different, immutable.

“I don’t think I’ve ever properly thanked you,” you said, still squeezing her tight. “You’re incredibly wise, Gwen Stacy. You know that.”

She pulled back to look at you, and though she was still pale and slightly shaky, she had a fire, a fierce kind of love in her eyes. “Of course I know that. Why else would I lecture you constantly?”

You giggled, and she squeezed you back again, tighter this time, seeming to sense something deeper in your eyes. “I’ll be okay, Y/N. Stark cured me, remember? It’s all okay.”

You closed your eyes. “It’s all okay.” And it was. It was, you would make it so. You held her tighter. “I love you. I’m so grateful for you.”

Lips pecked your cheek. “I love you too. Otherwise I wouldn’t put up with all this crap.” You made to playfully shove her backwards, but she evaded your grip, giggling. “The real question is when you and Peter will get married.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just joking.” She raised a teasing eyebrow. “Mostly.” Her eyes fell on your still-relatively-new couch, smile changing slightly. “Remember when he bled all over that couch and you had to lie to me about why?”

You smiled too, but, like Gwen, it was dipped in melancholy. Remembering Peter bleeding, broken. So alone in all his troubles. So alone he’d forced isolation from everyone who loved him. “It’s hard to carry the world on your shoulders for that long.”

Gwen’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “it’s a miracle he was able to do it at all.”

You squeezed her hand. “ _I_ couldn’t have done it without you.” She looked up at you, confused, so you continued, “Helped him. Let him back in. Death with all the stuff between him and me and…” a breath, but you were strong enough, “and Blake too.”

She smiled, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. “Compared to what you guys have gone through…”

“It’s not a competition.” And it wasn’t. Truly. If there was anything you had learned, it was comparisons were a fool’s errand. “There are no greater or lesser hurts. And you were there for all of it.”

Her hand was soft and strong in your own. “Thank you.”

“You should come to the Parker’s today. It’ll be fun.”

Her face scrunched. “You think I’d be invited?”

“Sure. May doesn’t mind company, plus, you still need to meet Ned.”

Her smile was rueful. “I’ve already met Ned.”

“Yeah, for like two seconds while Blake and I duked it out,” you snorted.

She grinned back, and you felt a twinge of sadness that his memory of Blake, which used to pack such an emotional punch, be a death blow to the rest of the day, didn’t hurt as much as it used to. It was painful, sure, but more like a pinch than a fatal knock out. And while part of you was grateful for this break from grief, grateful for the growth into new, alive things, you were also mourning for his memory. Mourning the sadness of grieving him.

But Blake was dead, and there was no bringing him back. And you felt sad you were forgetting him. And all of that was okay and necessary and okay.

“I’ll come if you want me to.”

Gwen’s voice pulled you back to reality, and if she knew where your thoughts had gone, she gave no indication, just squeezed your hand lightly.

You smiled and tried to convey to her through that smile the one thousand and one things you were grateful to her for. “Of course, I want you to.”

You hoped at least a few of them got through.

***

The Parker apartment was full to the brim.

It wasn’t that there were heaps of people. Just Peter, you, Gwen, Ned, and May, but the tiny kitchen table flooded with burger patties and casserole dishes and lemonade pitchers, and there were candles burning in the family room, and some pop station Peter liked was playing, so the entire space buzzed with energy.

Peter got up from the couch as you walked in, pausing his Zelda campaign with Ned. He hugged Gwen before turning to give you a kiss, and you kept one of his hands in your own, motioning to the array of dishes on the table. “Quite the spread you’ve got here.”

“You like?”

“Hey, if burgers are out you know I’m gonna like it.”

May came up beside the pair of you, rubbing a hand along your shoulder. “Well, I can’t take credit for any of it. Peter was very helpful because, as you know, cooking is not my forte.”

You laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not mine either.”

“Hey,” Peter shrugged, a grin coming to his face, “all those hours of crying and watching cooking shows had to pay off for something right?”

There was a short pause, like an intake of breath, at the casual mention of that time, and you waited for him. Waited for him to revert back to that sobbing, shaking boy. The one who flinched away from you and left before you could say goodbye. But this Peter just straightened his shoulders and gave you a sheepish smile, and you realized there was something expectant in his gaze- He was waiting for you to laugh too.

May joined in first and you were left giggling behind, feeling a smile come to your face despite the shock. “We did watch a shit ton of cooking shows.”

And it felt _good_. To just laugh at the incredulousness of it all for a few moments. Because you had shed your tears, that much was sure, and maybe you had more to shed. But in this moment, it was okay to laugh. Because it was a crazy stupid weird time to be alive. And this was it.

You pulled Peter towards the couch. “Come on, I need to beat you at Zelda.”

He spluttered, and you smiled, satisfied the bait had worked. “You don’t _beat_ people at Zelda, that’s like…inherently incorrect, it’s not even-”

And, despite the relatively few people in the apartment, it felt full. You couldn’t quite explain it. Like a cup of warm coffee slopping over the top. Like a dandelion scattered to the wind on a day that smelled like summer. Like the beating of your heart, of everyone’s hearts, was the same as the undertone of music, was one. Like the opposite of alone. Like the absence of fear.

Gwen was already sitting amongst a pile of blankets on the floor, chatting animatedly with Ned. You searched her face carefully, worried this would be too much too soon for her. The cure had work, but she had still nearly died. She was still weak. Now, however, she sat strong, smile wide on her cheeks as she jabbered away with Peter and Ned, a slightly pale face the only indication something had ever not been quite perfect.

She felt your gaze, and you made to look away before she could notice you staring, though you weren’t fast enough. Her smile just deepened, however. She knew what you were doing, and instead of begrudging you for it, she appreciated it. Gwen showed you how to be soft and strong, how despite being independent and supported, she could still accept these moments of tenderness, of you caring about her. You loved her all the more for it.

You felt someone poking your shoulder and turned to your left to see Ned grinning at you. “Long time, no see.”

You laughed, because how else did one respond to ‘Long time, no see,’ when the answer was, ‘Yeah, my boyfriend died and then I got back together with the guy who was sorta my boyfriend all along, and then _I_ almost died so I had to get bitten by a radioactive spider which may or may not have imbued me with the same powers as the superhero previous known as Spider-Man, and then we had to defeat the man who killed my parents, ex-boyfriend, and countless others so he didn’t destroy the world?’ You settled on, “Yeah, seriously.”

He laughed with you, but there was something deeper in his eyes, more solemn. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you these past two years while we’ve been at school. We fell apart, and I’m not quite sure why.”

“Oh, Ned.” You covered his hand with your own. “It’s not…we were both struggling. I wished I had you, and I’m sure you wished you had me, but for whatever reason, we couldn’t reach out.”

“I’ve done a lot of research on trauma.” His eyes dropped to his lap, and when they looked back up at you, they were deadly serious. “We all…it was a lot- to go through what we went through at our age.” On your other side, Peter’s hand twisted into your own. “It’s a lot to go through _now_.”

His eyes wandered to the Zelda game, still idling on the TV screen. “Maybe the isolation was part of our processing. We can’t fault ourselves for trying. But it wasn’t the best choice. We have to try harder, now, to stay together. To be there. To be present.”

You tipped to the side, resting your head on Ned’s shoulder, forehead touching his. Perter leaned over as well, pressing his forehead against both of yours. A triangle of friends.

“Wise Ned Leeds is wise,” Peter whispered, causing you and Ned to giggle, though it was the somber kind of weighted laugh.

“Wise enough to know I have to remind you I love you every so often,” he whispered back. “Not that I don’t love you too, Y/N, but I know Peter’s the doubter in our mix.”

You giggled again, and Peter reached up to rumple Ned’s hair. “I love you too. Forever and ever.”

The sound of the door squeaking open caused you to break apart. “Tony?” You heard the surprise in May’s voice before you could see who it was. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yeah, well.” And yet, despite your own shock, there he was, Tony Stark in the flesh. He was in one of those flashy suits, which seemed par for the course until you remembered you had seen him in nothing but grease-stained sweatpants and ratty t-shirts for the last four years. He still looked too skinny and as though he had aged ten years in the span of one, but he was here. He rubbed a slightly nervous hand over his face, and you realized, despite the fancy suit, you had never seen him this demure. “The kid texted me to see if I was around, and, as it happened, I’m _always_ around these days, so I thought, I don’t know, maybe I’ll stop by. If I’m intruding, though, I can leave, it’s perfectly-”

Peter threw his arms around Tony, cutting him off, as the younger boy engulfed him in a hug. Tony stumbled backwards for a moment, eyes wide in shock and surprise, before wrapping his arms back around Peter, rubbing between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry,” Peter was mumbling, doing the sniffy thing he did when he was closed to tears. “I shouldn’t have cut you off like I did. I was wrong.”

You were certain if your hearing wasn’t dialed up to three thousand, you wouldn’t have been able to hear this, and you blushed, looking down. Trying not to feel intrusive.

“It’s okay.” Tony spoke with the careful patience of a parent. “I know. It’s okay.”

“What do I need to do to make it up to you?”

“You don’t need to do anything.” But when Peter looked dismayed, Tony smiled, quickly correcting, “Honestly, this is enough. Dinner? That’s a good start.”

“We should talk.”

“You can talk later.” May had a stack of plates in her hand. “I don’t want all of this lovely food to go cold. It’s eatin’ time.”

And so you filled your plate with food inspired by one of the worst times in your life. But this time was different. This time, you held Gwen’s hand on one side and Peter’s on the other. And May gave you a squeeze as she passed by, and Ned sat across from you, glowing from within. Even Tony regained some of his former charisma, laughing and joking about future job opportunities with Ned.

It wasn’t perfect, nor would it be perfect for a while. Maybe ever. But it was a start, and sometime a start was just that.

Enough.

***

There were several sunlit days where everything and nothing happened. You took care of Gwen, let her help you set up a charity in Blake’s honor, and made sure Ned got through his finals okay because he was the only one of you close to passing at this point. Through all of this, Peter was a constant presence.

You wanted to say it was like it was before, but it wasn’t. Before…what did before mean anymore? Before the Pharmacist? Before Blake? Before Peter walking out…before Thanos, before Uncle Ben, before radioactive spiders. Before you had moved with the ease of two people who had tied their first loose teeth together and ran in opposite directions so they both could get tooth fairy money. The alchemic and careful bond of childhood knowledge- the knowledge of who someone truly was, at their core.

And it wasn’t that you didn’t know who he was now. But you had both changed, both grown. And that was okay- it had to be okay. Because though you had missed things along the way, and it ached that you missed them, you still knew him. You loved him.

So, you moved together now, and it wasn’t the unconscious ease of childhood, no, both of you had seen too much to go back now. But there was a joy in the conscious exercise of moving together- of finding new ways to shape back into each other’s lives. Of finding the Peter-shaped holes he still fit into, mourning the ones he didn’t, and celebrating the new gaps of life he filled for you.

But though you had been nearly inseparable since that day in the compound, you had yet to get any alone time. So, when you were sure Gwen was seriously, honestly, truly okay to be left alone and not sneak out of the apartment, you found yourself standing outside of Peter’s door, breathing hard, though you weren’t completely sure why.

When Peter answered, he was already in boxers, hair rumpled, glasses on.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Of course not.” He sheepishly smiled, grabbing your wrist and pulling you across the threshold. “Come to bed with me.”

You followed him inside, dutifully taking your side of the bed, yanking the comforter up underneath your chin in the way you knew annoyed him because it stole all the covers. “Two cups of tea on your nightstand?”

He blushed but smiled nonchalantly. “I was hoping you’d come.”

You scooted so your back propped against the headboard, wrapping an arm around him and pulling his head down against your chest. Your fingers played absentmindedly with his hair, and you pressed your cold toes against his calves. He hissed, and made to flinch away, but you held him close. “Jesus, I always forget you don’t get proper circulation to your toes.”

“What kinda tea did ya make?”

“Green. It’s caffeinated, so it’s probably a little late to have it now.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Why’d you make it then?”

“The aesthetic.” He craned his head up to grin goofily at you, and you rolled your eyes but leaned down to give him a peck anyway.

“You’re impossible.”

But you were laughing right along with him, and there was a long moment afterwards in which you just sat, closing your eyes, taking the moment in. Peter Parker. Not a boy, not a man, just this being whose ear was pressed against your heart and whose curls twirled perfectly between your fingers and whose legs were perfect for warming up your cold cold feet.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” he whispered, and his breath danced along your collarbone. He reached up, twining your fingers together, staring at how they interlocked. “That we’re here. In this moment, together. It seems so stupid, I know, but…”

“I understand.” And you did. You traced a line from his forehead, down his nose, cupids bow, lips, before kissing him.

It almost developed into something more before he was pulling back, reaching out for something. “I almost forgot. I have a gift for you.”

He craned off the bed, riffling along a bag, before pushing back up onto the mattress, holding out his hands.

You adjusted so that you were sitting, facing him, toes overlapping as you frowned down at his palms. You took a long pause before meeting his eyes again, searching. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re yours,” he said simply, making to dump the web shooters into your hands. “I just wanted to give them back after the trip to the compound.”

But you couldn’t accept. “These are your web shooters. Tony made them for _you_. For your fancy suit. For Spider-Man.”

His voice was gentle, and a hand ghosted along your knee. “And you’re the one with powers now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t…” You faltered, but maybe he was right. It seemed the effects of the spider bite weren’t reversible. They had, in fact, saved you. But they’d also given other things- super speed, strength, senses- all of which had…strengthened, rather than diminished, over time.

“Look.” Peter scratched the back of his neck, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I don’t want to be presumptuous. If you don’t want them, or you want them but you don’t use them, that’s okay with me.” His eyes were serious now, deadly. “But I know you, Bug. I know who we are. And you and I have a hard time sitting on our asses while we could be out doing something. So, if you’re able to be out there, and you want to be, you should.”

“But…” you reached out to touch his cheek, and his caught your hand in his.

“Don’t worry about me. Honestly. Tony said he’s working on something. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.” Because, just as the spider bite had unintended effects, the Pharmacist’s poison to take away Peter’s powers hadn’t worn off. And while it was odd to see Peter existing in the world without his powers, squinting at things without his glasses, he also seemed at ease. He could sleep through the night without waking up constantly to the grandma upstairs hosting karaoke. He could walk through the streets without feeling the need to check every corner for a crime. His shoulders seemed a little less heavy.

“Maybe it would be nice for you. To take the burden off for a while.”

He gave you a rueful smile. “Haven’t I been taking the burden off for a long while now?”

“No,” you told him, and it was the truth.

Because, in that moment, for one millisecond, you saw the Peter Parker you remembered from your youth. And this boy was so tired, he needed to sleep for forty years. He hadn’t slept in ages.

He leaned forward, kissing in his eyes, but you pushed him back, you weren’t ready yet. “You didn’t want me to get bit.”

“I didn’t.” He chewed on his lip, twisting the comforter into knots. “And, if I’m being honest, I still wish there was another way.”

You pressed your toes against his as you sat face to face.

“But, Bug,” he reached out to cup your cheek, running a finger along your jawline, “I don’t regret where this story has taken us. I don’t regret _this_.” His hand traced from your ear down to your collarbone, and you shivered. “I think it’s always been leading to this, in some ways. Super-Bug and Spider-Man, right? I don’t want you to have this burden, but you’re not like me. You’re practically perfect in every way- for starters. But you also have me and May and Gwen and Ned and Tony all by your side. We can do this. We’ll get through this.”

“The world probably does need someone constantly saving its ass,” you admitted with a smile.

He kissed you. “That’s my girl.”

You grabbed him and pulled him closer and kissed him back with the intention of solidifying it all in stone, carving a place out for the two of you in this world that was undeniably your own, one in which no one could ever wrench you apart again. Your legs were around his waist and he was kissing your neck, inching lower when he suddenly stopped. Over top you, eyes still glowing.

“I’m sorry I left.”

“You stupid, wandering boy.” You reached back up to him, kissing the tips of his ears, his eyelids, his nose. “When are you going to forgive yourself?”

He didn’t respond, but his face was tight above yours, wracked with worry and guilt. You reached up to press a thumb along the crease between his eyebrows. “Peter Parker, I love you. I love you for everything you are and everything you’ve done. And as much as I hate all the shit the world’s thrown at you, I’d give you an overall B in handling it all.”

He giggled despite himself. “A B?”

“Don’t worry, I offer extra credit.”

He began to kiss you again, but you pulled his head up, grasping his cheeks between your hands, making sure he looked at you. “Honestly, though. I don’t care about the middle. I just care how it all ends. And you came back.” Frozen. “Didn’t you?” He slowly nodded. “That’s right.”

You rolled over onto your side, and you fit into his arm imperfectly perfect, and you held onto him tight enough you could feel his pulse thudding against your fingers but not as tight as you once had because you were no longer scared he’d fly away from you again.

“We’ll have a thousand more of these nights,” you whispered against his hair. “I’ll make sure of it. A thousand more nights.”

“A thousand mornings too,” he mumbled. “I want the mornings.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

He chuckled, tightening his hold around you, moving his legs so you could press your toes more easily into his calves. The two mugs of tea steaming on the nightstand. And there was more to think about, definitely. More to talk about, certainly. Tomorrow you would need to worry about talking to Blake’s mom and redoing all your classes from junior year and how to get Peter’s powers back and what to do if you unwittingly just became a superhero. Right now, though, you were just okay in this moment, with a boy tucked in your arms, already snoring softly, the moonlight illuminating features that hadn’t relaxed in nearly a decade.

Right now, it was time to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and just like that, it's over :,) i hope y'all enjoyed the ending and it was satisfying to you. i can't believe it's been nearly a year since i started writing this fic. i hadn't written a multichap in ~8 yrs, and i can't say a big enough THANK YOU to everyone who supported me through this story. you are truly, honestly, spectacular. if you've read, kudos, or left a comment- it has been appreciated. i laughed at all of your witty remarks, and treasured every word of the paragraphs you left me. thank you from the bottom of my heart <3
> 
> as for what's next- there will def be more spidey fic to come, rn i think i'm going to focus more on my ned/peter verse, but lmk if there's something you'd like to see. tbh, i prob won't write too much more reader-insert. it's not my fav style, although it has been a joy to explore 2nd pov through 'wanderer,' and i truly enjoyed pushing myself and discovering a voice in this type of writing. that being said, there may be occasional reader one shot/drabbles found on my tumblr (@hvllanders) if you're into that. 
> 
> there is one scene from this chapter that never made it in that i DESPERATELY want to write, so, who knows, if y'all are interested i may post that as an epilogue eventually :) lmk
> 
> again- thank you thank you thank you. you are loved and appreciated, and please dont wander too far ( ;) ), i hope to still see you all around the fandom <3


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